


Chasing a Figure in a Spotlight

by Waistcoat35



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: (Spoilers Charity is dead before the story even starts), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, No Smut, P.T. Is Smitten, Phillip is Shy, Phillip is a sweetheart, Playwright Phillip, Slow Burn, So is Phineas tbh, The kids are matchmakers, Theatre, no smut here folks, plays, you hear me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-04-04 21:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14029248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35
Summary: His final declaration was met with rapturous applause, and his smile seemed to lack legitimacy, tinged with a hint of sadness as he exited. The curtains were opening now, and Phineas’ smile was mostly due to his daughters’ cries of excitement -  but the last part of it, a small, private, secret part, was due to the memory of wolfish blue eyes boring into his for just a second as the man had scanned the crowd.





	1. In Which Plays Are Watched, and Phineas Meets a Beautiful Person While Meeting Another One

**Author's Note:**

> This work is dedicated to my fabulous friend phillipbarnum on Tumblr! I've been screeching about it with them for several days now, so I thank them for their help in the making of this fic.

Phineas had never really been one for the theatre before – but then again, he supposed, he was rather different from before now that he’d lost one of the biggest parts of himself, five months ago.  They’d never taken the girls to the theatre before, partially because they couldn’t afford it and partially because Charity had been dragged along so many times in her youth that she wasn’t eager to set foot inside one for some time. Still, he thought, almost bitterly – she wouldn’t have to worry about that now.

As he leaned back in his seat, he tried to quell the sensation that coming here, where she’d been so reluctant to go, was a betrayal. It’d taken him until almost a week before the play’s opening night to be able to bring himself to buy the tickets. He almost hadn’t – but this play was the first thing the girls had really looked interested in – looked _excited_ about – since _it_ happened.

He shook his head to try and rid himself of these thoughts, trying to smile once more as the girls came back with refreshments. He took one of the proffered paper bags, covered in gaudy stripes, and placed one arm around the girls’ shoulders as they took their seats beside him on the left.

“Do you think the play’s gonna be good, daddy?”

He blinked several times, turning his head towards them as he registered the question. He’d still been in a sort of disbelieving haze since he bought the tickets, so he wasn’t even entirely sure what the play was about – but Caroline was waiting for an answer and Helen was watching him intently.

“Oh, I – um – yes, yes, I’m sure it’ll be brilliant.”

He made a mental note to himself – _focus on the play_. The girls would probably ask him no end of questions about it afterwards, and if he couldn’t answer them he’d be in big trouble. Not money trouble, not accidentally-broke-a-window trouble – _scolding daughter trouble_ , which was altogether worse. He checked his watch – seven minutes until it started. With appraisal, he let his eyes wander over the rich indigo curtains held shut by cream-coloured ropes. There were ornate carvings all around the edge of the stage and the flanking walls, almost too fine in detail to discern from where they were sitting, but he could just about make out the shapes of tigers in white wood, each lithe, slinking shape wreathed by whittled flowers that could be lilies.

In all honesty, he could happily spend all his days in a building like this. In the lobby, he’d almost dropped their tickets once they’d been collected because he was too busy staring at the ceiling, a blue and ivory circular affair wreathed by amber, regularly embellished by painted miniatures of lions and unicorns, horses and hounds. This was the sort of building he’d _design_.

He was interrupted from his reverie by Helen, who, after several aborted attempts to get his attention by patting his shoulder, was now tugging at the knee of his trousers. He started in his seat, wondering if something was wrong. After all the two had been through lately, he wanted tonight to be perfect for them.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Helen giggled and shook her head the way she always did when she thought him particularly silly, Caroline smiling to herself as she focused on the stage.

“ _Dad_ dy, it’s _sta_ rting!”

He fended off Helen’s ruthless pokes as the lights began to dim, trying to quiet his own mirth. He gently pushed her arm back, and she finally relented and settled into her chair. The curtains had not yet been drawn, but there was a bright white spotlight hitting the exact middle of the curtains and pooling onto the planks of the stage floor like a lazy, melting wax moon, and Phineas could now see a lean figure walking onstage. Clearing their throat amongst interested murmurs, the mystery person stepped into the spotlight – and just about took Phineas’ breath away.

His hair was gelled and slicked-back, but he could tell that it would stick up in tufts when untamed, which made him want to run his hands through it – wait, _no, why was he thinking that, stupid,_ stop _it_ –

“I’d like to thank everybody who has attended this performance tonight, on its opening evening – this is the night that matters most in a play’s run. This isn’t the first production I’ve written, and I sincerely hope you’ll leave decent enough reviews that it doesn’t become my last-” There were several chuckles, Phineas’ among them, and the man gave a small smirk. “In any case, my name is Phillip B. Carlyle, and I proudly present to you: Catching Flowers!”

His final declaration was met with rapturous applause, and his smile seemed to lack legitimacy, tinged with a hint of sadness as he exited. The curtains were opening now, and Phineas’ smile was mostly due to his daughters’ cries of excitement -  but the last part of it, the small, secret part tucked close to his heart – perhaps hidden in his breast pocket – was due to the memory of wolfish blue eyes boring into his for just a second as the man had scanned the crowd.

Phineas tried to stay true to his earlier promise, focusing on the performance as best he could.

_It was about a young boy who was taken in by a rich family when he was only a baby – he grew up with every material possession he could possibly want, every toy and book and unimaginable kinds of food. But he had been taken in out of the family’s obligation. If it had gotten out that they’d turned the young boy away for no good reason, their name would have blemished for good. The boy wasn’t satisfied with all that he was given, because despite everything he owned, there was no love for him at the grand house – nobody who truly, willingly cared for him or understood him._

_Having realised this, he ran away one night, sliding down the ivy growing around his bedroom window. The family were irate – if the boy mentioned his upbringing and could be traced back to them, their reputation was finished – so they immediately organised a search to find him._

_However, the boy had found a woman who he was certain was his real mother – an actress in New York City. To hide from the people searching for him, he took refuge with her by working as a stagehand and being her assistant, walking back onstage after her performances to gather up her flowers. The actress was good to him, and extremely kind, showing him love the likes of which he hadn’t known before. When the rich family came looking for him he confessed his belief that they were of the same blood – only for her to reveal that she had never taken a lover, and he could not possibly be her son. Nevertheless, she helped to hide him, but it wasn’t enough – it wasn’t long until the family finally caught up with him._

_However, the night before they did, a poor woman in the crowd threw a single wildflower onto the stage while he was collecting the rest of the flowers – there was a note attached, and when he read it, it claimed that the woman was his true mother. He immediately went to find her in the departing crowd, and when he caught up to her she told him everything – how his father had been a travelling singer, and they had fallen in love, only for him to fall ill, passing away shortly after she had given birth._

_Due to being left suddenly bereft and without extra financial aid, she couldn’t afford to keep him by her side, so she had left him with the family in the hopes that he would be happier there. However, the boy reassured her that he would be happiest by her side. Cutting back to the night when the rich family caught up with him, the play showed him refusing to return to the mansion with them. He said his goodbyes to the actress, promising to write, and left with his mother. They were far poorer than he had been with the first family, but they made ends meet by both finding jobs, and eventually managed to save up for a small cottage out in the countryside. It wasn’t a lot, but it was theirs._

The story had been beautiful – the girls were leaning over the seats in front of them and cheering as they applauded, and Phineas had to admit that his eyes had watered once or twice – but he’d been far too focused on the box above them to the right, reserved for special guests and spectators. He had to crane his neck, but he thought, just for a moment, that he’d seen a familiar silhouette up there – those same eyes, the same hair. Perhaps he was simply dreaming things up.

They stayed until the very end after the final bow, despite the girls’ fidgeting, in case the man returned for a closing speech. Alas, it would seem it was not to be, and as people began to file out, their busy chatter barely permeating Phineas’ thoughts, he cast one last regretful glance towards the reserved seating. The room is still three-quarters full, but suddenly it feels far too empty without one particular prescence.

As they’re heading outside, however, the room may have felt empty but Phineas’ heart now felt full. Because he was there – _right there_ , leaning against a pillar out of the sight of most departing theatregoers. He seemed to be leaning on the pillar for support more than merely leisure, and there was a small flask of something in his hand. Phineas had never even spoken to the man before, didn’t technically know him (and yet, funnily enough, felt like he knew him better than anybody else in that theatre had,) and yet the concern he felt for him was a lance through him. He wavered slightly, suddenly unsure whether or not to approach him, and then had the decision made for him as the girls realised what – or rather, _who_ – he was looking at.

“Daddy, look – it’s Mister Carlyle!” Caroline and Helen were already racing toward him. Oh, well – so much for being cautious. Phineas had eyes on them the whole time as he walked over, and he didn’t miss the slight flinch as the man was taken by surprise.

“I’m sorry sir, my daughters didn’t mean to startle you. They were just eager to say hello, they-“

“We _loved_ your play!” Helen burst out, Caroline hovering just behind her with barely concealed eagerness. “It was beautiful – how the boy found his real mom, and he didn’t care that she was poor and the other family was rich, and how the nice actress lady helped him, and-” The two began to voice their favourite parts as one, talking over one another and glaring at each other every time they managed to do so – even Phineas had to admit that it was rather comical. However, the poor man looked slightly overwhelmed by all the attention, so Phineas came to his rescue.

“Slow down, girls. You can talk to Mr Carlyle a little more in a minute – how about you go see if they have any programs left, since you liked it so much?” Their faces lit up as he handed them each a note, and they raced back into the building. Phineas cast a fond grin in their direction, before turning to his companion.

“They do mean well, really. And they’re telling the truth – they loved it. We _all_ loved it.” He glanced at the man meaningfully. Carlyle looked suddenly shy, that odd, pleased look on his face that Phineas knew he used to get when he got a letter or a compliment from Cha-no, not right now, _not right now_.

“Tha-thank you. That – it means a lot to me, honestly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody quite that happy coming out of one of my plays. Probably never will again, really. It was different from anything else I’ve done – normally my work is far more bleak, gritty, political, _revolutionary_ ,” here he grimaced as he made mock quotation marks in the air. “But, you know – politics and grit form a somewhat meagre diet. A writer starves if they exist by writing nothing else.”

Phineas gave in to the urge to laugh at the younger man’s attitude. “I quite agree, Mr Carlyle. In any case, I won’t bore you with details, but – we’ve been going through some pretty rough times lately, the girls and I. Your play – I think it was what they needed. I haven’t seen them this enthusiastic about _anything_ since – well, since-“ his throat had suddenly gone dry. _What am I really doing here? I shouldn’t be talking to him. I shouldn’t be thinking like that. Not now, not so soon after I’ve lost her._

The other man seemed to sense his disquiet. To Phineas’ relief, he put the flask away and held out a hand for him to shake. “Please, Mr Carlyle is my-“ another grimace, better-concealed but still there, “my father. And – I’m glad that I managed to make somebody happy. I think it’d – it’d be nice if I could do that more often. And as for what you’ve been going through – I’d say I was sorry, if I thought it’d help you. But sometimes when you’re in a bleak situation – when it looks like it’s going to last forever – sometimes, the only means of helping is to provide escape. I hope that I managed to do that for you, Mr…?”

Phineas shook his head slightly, only in _part_ to dispel the moisture that had been gathering in his eyes. “Mr Barnum, but Phineas is fine. Absolutely fine. And – thank you. It would seem that writers do have something of a way with words, I – I think you may be the first person who’s known exactly what to say.”

“You’re quite welcome – Phineas. Hey, should we see where your girls are? They’ve been a little while now.” Phineas nodded, remembering only then that he had yet to let go of Phillip’s hand. When he finally did so, he felt adrift once more – a boat that had released its anchor.

Just then, the girls came back, notes still in hand. “They ran out of programs,” Caroline explained, looking slightly disappointed. “We were hoping to read them afterwards, to remember the show.” Phineas was about to try and comfort them when Phillip straightened up, as though remembering something. He fumbled around in his suit jacket, pulling out a glossy rectangular object. He held it out to the girls, who squealed.

“A program! Thank you, Mr Carlyle!”

Phineas was pretty sure that his smile was going to break his face. Phillip turned to him. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen on you, would you, Phineas?” He became sheepish, patting around until he found the one he’d forgotten and left in his shirt’s breast pocket, handing it over and watching as Phillip scrawled a quick message. Instead of handing the book back straight away, he turned over to the back leaf, scribbling something else, before snapping it shut and bending down to give it to Caroline and Helen.

“I’m afraid I’d best make myself scarce – I’m expected at the opening evening dinner, and although I’d much rather stay and chat with you lovely young ladies,” the girls giggled, and Phineas decided he _definitely_ liked this man, “they’d think me rude if I elected not to attend.” With that, he nodded and smiled to the girls, giving them a mock-bow, and just for a moment, Phineas fancied that Phillip smiled at him too.

He was probably just dreaming again.

But later that night, long after the young man had walked away and they’d gotten home, the girls heading to bed still talking about the evening, he’d quietly retrieved the programme from their room and sat with it at the kitchen table, running his hands over the ink on the back page.

_To Phineas,_

_It has been wonderful to meet you and your delightful girls. What will be considered probably my worst play by the press is now my best play in my own eyes, because when I started writing, I think all I really wanted was to make somebody happy. It was a great pleasure to meet you, and I wish you well in life – you do not deserve the frightful things our world has to offer._

_All the best,_

_Phillip Bailey Carlyle._

He was in deep water.


	2. What I Wouldn't Give (just to see your face again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been struggling to do this chapter since I wrote the last one, and I was exhausted tonight - so I give you my apologies if it isn't quite up to last week's standard.  
> WARNINGS FOR: Implied/Referenced Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

Phillip’s steps away from the theatre felt heavy, his legs weighed down with the urge to _stop_ and _wait_ and _don’t leave, not now_ _\- not yet_. He’d been telling the truth; he’d much rather have stayed there with that man and his daughters and their handshakes and his – their, he reprimands himself – _smiles_ , god. Every step he took carried him closer to the dinner party and farther from what was perhaps the one place where he felt some semblance of safety, some crude shadow puppet’s silhouette of belonging.

He’d like nothing better than to turn around, to race back and apologise for ever entertaining the notion of leaving. He could just not go to the dinner, surely? _But then…_ he shuddered. But then his parents would know. It would get back to them, somehow; he knew that it would because it always did. Every wrong word, every broken vase or smashed glass, every late or missed social engagement – there was always somebody watching, always somebody scraping at the feet or whispering in the ears of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. He could see the gentleman’s club on the street corner, and his hand twitched, an anxious tic that showed how he usually dealt with this. He needed to write – _god,_ he needed to write.

That play – he’d enjoyed writing it, beyond all measure. Granted, he was probably _supposed_ to enjoy all of his work – it _was_ his job, after all. He wanted to say something important with his plays – but when all he wrote was murder mysteries and political scandals, it was hard to glean actual _pleasure_ from the art. That play had helped him cope with everything – perhaps that was why he’d spend so long working on it. Once he’d let it out into the world, to be seen and judged and shoved through the grinding machines known as theatre critics’ standards, he’d have to go back to crawling inside a bottle. He was tired of that – he scrubbed a hand over his face and allowed himself a brief but heartfelt sigh.

And now he was about to spend an evening tolerating pompous starched-shirt noblemen who laughed and joked and pretended to understand the piece of his soul he had nurtured and written and so generously published, all the while drinking himself silly.

If he could see that man again, Phillip swore, to God or the heavens or perhaps whatever gracious entity had stopped his father from beating him to death (that one seemed to care about him more than any god) he’d try to stop drinking. He’d never touch another flute of champagne. It couldn’t be so hard, he mused – the man’s company had been just as intoxicating and twice as addictive.

 _Stop dreaming, Phillip_.

It said a lot that he heard his parents’ voices in his head far more often than his own. Such had been the case throughout most of his childhood – it was only through playwriting that he had been capable of allowing his own opinions grow and develop like seeds sown into the earth. Those seeds had grown into curling vines that weaved themselves through the spokes of his plays, but never before seeing that man – seeing _Phineas_ – had he allowed them to bloom into flowers. Before now, he’d written of the stars when he didn’t even know anything of the sky. But that man had come, and he’d smiled as he took his hand, and he’d pushed one of the clouds aside so that a tiny sliver of sun could filter through. For just a moment, the slight flicker of a smile crept onto Phillip’s face as he stopped outside the club, basking in both the memory of the encounter and the light from the hallway as he quickly smoothed a hand over his hair, making sure there weren’t any strands out of place.

(Doing that reminded him of Phineas’ hair – tousled and a dark chestnut colour, the strands tinged with copper whenever they were caught in front of one of the theatre lights. How would it feel to touch it – to run his hands through it? Surely it’d be like the mane of a lion, the worn and unruly feathers of a weary angel, like _– like stroking a ducking_ , Phillip thought with despair. He’d well and truly lost it.) As he stepped inside after quickly checking his shoes and re-fixing his bow tie, he was greeted with cheers and polite applause and raucous laughter. He took a deep breath and readied himself for the onslaught.

* * *

 

“Master Carlyle, how positively _divine_ to see you! Oh, I’m sure your play was a complete success, do come here and tell us all about it! Now, I was telling Marjorie – “

“Mr Carlyle, we’re glad you could make it. Can I interest you in a spot of whisky…?”

“Oh, Mr Carlyle, I’d love you to meet my daughter, Carmella! She’s just turned eighteen, looking for a suitor, actually, might you be-“

Dear _God_. He hadn’t been inside for two minutes, and already the crowds were beginning to drive him to distraction. There wasn’t a single pair of eyes focused on anybody except him, and he hated it. He _hated_ it. His right hand twitched again. When the conversation among the throngs started up again, he scowled at it. How was it possible that, in this precise moment, he longed to write more than anything else and yet he also wanted to flee the public eye and never publish another word again?

As he floated in and out of short exchanges with guest after guest, Phillip found himself twirling metaphors and prose around in his head, adorning his currently painfully barren mind with strings of his favourite quotes, the way some families scattered tinsel at Christmas time. (Not that he’d ever had such a pleasure. The few decorations his parents allowed were put up by the maidservants, glacial and excessive at best, merely for the purpose of impressing outsiders. He’d always wanted to help, when he was younger – but after too many times of a cane to the wrist whenever he tried, he’d allowed his enthusiasm to die.)

His hand physically _itched_ , and at this point, he wouldn’t even need to write for his relief – it would be enough to catch a whiff of fresh parchment, to look down and see the ink blotches blushing across the edges of his hand, forming little mosaics across calloused skin. He made do with what he had – when he finally had a moment alone, he wrote on a napkin from a nearby tray, fingers fumbling with the stub of pencil he’d kept in his pocket. However, he caught several of the more well-to-do guests watching when they thought he wouldn’t notice, and he contented himself with looking out of one of the large bay windows onto the cobbled street.

He was glancing from the corner of his eye at another wealthy gentleman who seemed to be considering coming to bother him. A second furtive glance told him that it was Mr Beckettsworth, an extremely nosy old man convinced that he could become bosom friends with Phillip’s father by taking him on shooting trips in the countryside. Unfortunately such tactics seemed to be working, if not all the way – his father still thought the man a bit of a fool, if a generous one. The man was fast approaching, with no feasible way for Phillip to escape a twenty-minute conversation about the distribution of grouse in the woodlands in May. (Though better than having to listen to his parents’ friends talking filth about the poorer families in the area, the topic was mind-numbingly dull, especially for a writer, who thrived off of the unusual.

Right before the man tapped him on the shoulder, however, he saw three shapes, one very tall and two at waist-height, walking along across the street. It was them.

Phillip was pretty sure his face was pressed against the glass at that point, as he drank in the other man’s relaxed, confident stride, that beloved hair, the smile he was giving his daughters. What had Phillip’s heart thrashing around like a mad thing was that he recognised that smile. It had been slightly different, a tinge of something more… passionate in it mixed with the tenderness, but that was the same smile that Phineas had given to him not even an hour ago. He watched for just a few more seconds, transfixed and hoping, although in vain, that the man would turn his head to the right through some stroke of luck or divine intervention. Although he didn’t, Phillip felt like he would’ve had to look away in any case. After the evening he was now having, that gaze on him once more would wear him down like the pencil he’d been using, chipping away at his grey matter the way writing did to the lead.

He wasn’t sure when he had started to compare writing to the gaze of a handsome man, to _love_ , even, but in this case it was the most accurate comparison that came to mind.

“Master Carlyle, _there_ you are. I have to say, your play was a hit – such a delightful comedy. Have you heard about the quality of the game to the southeast of the city just now? I hear it’s very good, do ask your father if he’d like to come along and-“

Ugh. And just like that, his moment had been ruined once more. It was set to be an extremely long evening.

* * *

 

As he returned to his apartment that evening, Phillip thanked any deity that was listening that his parents had not attended the gathering. As it was, the implications of the play were perfectly clear to anybody with enough perception (aside from Mr Beckettsworth, who still seemed to find a tale of supposed orphans, violence and family over wealth to be extremely comedic.) To draw a line between the play’s plot and Phillip’s home life – for anybody who had met him, or the chance few people who’d accidentally seen his bare arms in whatever unfortunate circumstance, who’d lain eyes on the bruises and welts – it was not a difficult leap to make.

If anybody said anything – and he prayed that they wouldn’t, but praying had never helped when he was at his father’s mercy – then they would know what he was trying to say to the world. They’d find him, and he’d be as good as dead. They wouldn’t do such a thing, not when people would talk, and he’d like to believe that his mother wouldn’t allow it – but inside, they would’ve killed him. If his parents took the play’s message as a claim to how they had raised him, they would make sure he could never write again. And Phillip honestly didn’t think he could live with that.

He was finally tired enough to go to sleep straight away, tonight. For once, it wasn’t to sleep off a hangover – something about the memory of that smile had made him put down a flute whenever he was offered one, for a good while. He hadn’t remained entirely teetotal -  but it was a step up from the state he ended up in at most of these gatherings. As he climbed into bed, he was bathed in the soft light from the hallway, clashing with the harsh amber hue from the streetlamp outside his apartment. Such a light was one of his few comforts when going to sleep, tonight coupled with the applause still ringing in his ears from the play, the image of a mother hugging her beloved, long-lost son and mirthful hazel eyes coupled with a tender smile.


	3. Time is all you need, in the end

It was happening almost every day now – he inexplicably found himself slipping upstairs to the girls’ room, gently sliding the programme from its drawer and tracing the inky script with a fingernail; he did so with the same tenderness he’d use if it were the man’s jaw, his hands, his finely slicked-back hair. Both the note and Mr Carlyle’s features were elegantly sculpted – both filled him with unfathomable longing whenever he saw them, when they danced across his consciousness like a skater on a frozen lake.

Rain was sliding down the window panes, filling up dips in the ground like a molten mirror and making the earth crackle as it landed; when Phineas looked out the window he felt a slow chill curling up his spine from the knowledge that he was safe in the warmth of the house while the earth wept. Perhaps he would’ve liked rain, once upon a time – would’ve twirled and laughed and embraced under its relentless cover. But he’d spent too many years pressing back into alleyways, cowering as it flicked past his nose and clogged up his eyelashes. It turned snow to slush and slush to ice, and that mean slipping and falling and pain and usually shouting or jeering from passers-by.

When he’d come back from the streets, back for Charity, the rain still hadn’t been a friend of his – it made the roof leak and stopped them from drying their clothes on the rooftop. But it had also made Charity laugh when they’d watched it from under a tree in the park after being caught out in the deluge, had made the girls happy when they skidded and pounced into the puddles in wellingtons bright as a beetles’ casing – so he and the rain had been in a cautious truce.

But the sky had been crying when Charity died. Droplets had hit the ground, sounding more like bullets as the world tunnelled out around him, as droplets of something sadder and saltier had slipped down his face. Her eyes had been like puddles – murky and greying from the fever, almost rippling as he was reflected in them. His own reflection was the last thing he saw in those eyes before they closed for good. Now the rain held nothing but numbness, sometimes grief – it had already sapped too much from him over the years to provoke something as fickle and temporary as annoyance.

If he could help it at all, they were staying indoors today. He’d managed to fold himself tightly into the armchair in the living room, (it was too small for him – but now the sofa felt hopelessly too big,) making the best of his book before the girls woke up. Most definitely reading a book – that’s all he was doing.

“What’re you doing, daddy?”

He gave a yelp, tucking the protruding corner of the programme back into the novel he’d been using to conceal it. He managed to vaguely uncurl himself from the oddly-shaped ball he’d formed with his crossed legs, heaving himself forwards so that he could finally see Helen over the arm of the upholstery. She looked unimpressed and slightly suspicious, so he tried for a winning grin.

“Nothing at all, darling. Did you girls want anything?”

It hadn’t quite worked – even at such an early age, Helen had clearly gotten her perception from her mother, narrowing her eyes at him as she folded her arms.

“Were you reading our programme  _again_?”

Oh, god – he was pretty sure that he was going red. This time, he couldn’t help but feel ever so slightly ashamed of himself. After he’d woken up to the rainstorm and all it entailed, he’d tried to ignore the thin paper booklet, the words in flowing script trying to snake around his wrists and pull him to the drawer. However, his bitterness was a knife, and he had severed the tugging vines just as he had pushed the writing from his mind.

Caroline had come in as well now, rolling her eyes and leaning an arm on Helen’s shoulder. “Of _course_ he is – daddy loved it as much as we did, and we’ve been through it _loads_ of times. Helen, can you go see if there’s anything left in the fruit bowl?” As the younger girl dashed off into the kitchen, her gaze bore into him. It seemed far too knowing.

“More like you’ve been reading the _writing_ at the back.” It didn’t sound accusing, and Caroline wasn’t acting as such – but still something twisted and writhed in his chest, wrapping around his lungs and squeezing as he flailed for words.

“What – no, not really, I just… enjoyed the show. Yeah. I really – really enjoyed it, you know? It was great to see you girls so happy.” She’d come forward to perch on the arm of the chair, looking down at him as she half-leaned into his lap, which was already filled by the book.

“If you say so, daddy.” He let out a relieved sigh. Helen came back in with three apples, tossing one to Phineas. He caught it deftly, and would have done so without so much exaggerated showmanship – but it made the girls laugh, and so he would keep on doing it for as long as possible, as with all things. He bit into it, licking the excess juice from the fruit’s skin, chewing for a moment before looking up once more.

“You girls just got up, so eager to have breakfast already? It’s pouring outside.”

They both looked apprehensive as they stood together, Helen nestled into Caroline’s side as she spoke first.

“We were – we were wondering if we were still gonna go see mommy today. You know – because we normally go every other Thursday?” (Phineas knew it was a tradition to visit such a place weekly, but he had thought that such a thing would be hard on the girls when they were still so young.)

Damn – they were right. He felt sick to his stomach – how the hell had he forgotten? He huffed out a rough breath, raking a hand over his face with little care for the scratches it left on his forehead – it was already marred by furrows ploughed by anxiety and grief, so what were a few more lines? He carefully set the book on the arm of the chair, opening of it facing away from them.

“Sure, sweetie – I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, daddy’s a little tired this morning.” Caroline’s eyes held a strange kind of understanding – of what, he wasn’t sure – and she and Helen came forward as one and hugged him, Helen’s arms around his neck as she perched on the other arm and Caroline’s wrapped securely around his torso, brushing against scars from days almost as difficult as this one.

* * *

 

Phineas was pretty sure that unless he found another place to get flowers, smelling lilies was going to begin to induce nausea in him. The flowers were standard and gave a pang whenever he saw them – it’d been the case before Charity had died. They’d been used for their meaning so many times that they now seldom seemed to mean _anything_ – Charity had said that once, when he’d mentioned not even being able to afford them for his father’s grave when he’d passed away. Now that he’d thought about it some more, it seemed almost like an insult to leave them here – it would’ve surely been better to bring nothing at all than to leave white lilies.

But he couldn’t let himself come empty-handed, not after he’d almost forgotten to come at all. He didn’t even have a good excuse – _Sorry, girls, I forgot that we were coming to visit the love of my life’s grave because I might have fallen in love with somebody else. And guess what? They’re a man._

He stiffened suddenly as he bent down to place the blooms there, wrapped in yesterday’s newspapers. (Funny that the flimsy material would grow soggy and wash away, just like he was allowing his love for her to seemingly disintegrate. He always was a selfish bastard, but this was proof.)

Why had he thought that? He wasn’t falling in love again, he couldn’t. Really – he _couldn’t_. She’d given him so much in life, and that wasn’t how he was going to repay her. He bent down further, finally laying the flowers across the soaked turf in front of the stone. He had watched the mound as it had developed from a mass of freshly dug-over earth to a slight bump in the terrain, covered in dew-soaked grass. When time became a blur, the easiest way to regain some semblance of awareness was to see the changes occurring in the world around you, especially when you were so numb you couldn’t feel those changes yourself.

Helen came running over with two fistfuls of daisies, their yellow faces shyly peeking out from fringes of ivory tinged with pink. She carefully squatted down, keeping her skirt out of the mud, and scattered them around his own offering as Caroline came over with a lone poppy from the cemetery gate. They were children, and yet they seemed to be handling this better than he ever had. A part of him said that was because he was weak, he’d always been weak – but another, shyer part whispered that it was because they hadn’t been there for those first dances through ivy and scrub, for the slightly later ones across the rooftop on their wedding night. A third and final part of him said that they were suffering just as much – but it was quieter, subtler, a silent plea for help.

The man at the theatre had looked like they did now, clutching a heavy flask in a shaking hand as he flinched away in surprise at nothing more than two loud little girls. Like he wanted somebody to understand, but was too afraid of how they’d react when they finally did.

 _Don’t think about him now, not_ here _– not_ -

Damn it.

Part of him – a lot of him, really – wanted to blame Phillip Carlyle for his turmoil. But from that flinch, that _look_ , he’d gleaned that Mr Carlyle was probably quite used to being blamed for things throughout his life. He quite knew the feeling, his father’s frustrations at their status and life situation bleeding into his treatment of Phineas almost every day, in harsh words and what _wasn’t_ done rather than what was. A father who loved his son wholeheartedly wouldn’t have stood there and watched him be struck, even if he didn’t have a single penny to his name – and so Phineas did love his father, but with the kind of detached resentment of children who feel that they have not been given their fair lot in life when it comes to family.

The part of him he’d tried to quell wanted to love Phillip with that same wholeheartedness he had always yearned for, and he didn’t want detached, bitter affection in reciprocation. He knew he really ought to say that he would love Phillip whether it was reciprocated or not – but the selfish part of him spoke up again, and he couldn’t quite help but wish that his feelings were returned – because then there’d be two of them in the wrong, rather than just him, standing alone at a sodden grave with his guilt.

Caroline and Helen had each burrowed their way under the shelter of an arm as he stood there in silent contemplation, and somehow it felt like they expected him to say something when they could not. But he didn’t know what to say.

For once in his life, Phineas Taylor Barnum had no idea what to say. And somehow, that terrified him both more than what he’d lost and _infinitely_ more than what he’d gained, which was impossible, because he had honestly thought he’d never be as terrified as when he felt that familiar fluttering in his chest directed at somebody else, somebody he had _no right_ to love.

So he just opened his mouth, felt his throat loosen only slightly at the first intake of cruel, coaxing, icy wind. He managed to breathe in, through some miracle of the lord. (Or whatever else was out there, seeing as it wasn’t quite his year to experience the grace of God.)

“I’m sorry, darling.”

They didn’t ask what he was sorry for – they were all sorry for something, after all. Caroline might have a closer semblance to understanding that Helen, who was old enough to understand that her mother was gone but not old enough to understand what her father was so upset about outside of that. But overall, they were all sorry that it was no longer a possibility to see her grin in the mornings, or feel her soft hands against their faces at night. That was perhaps what even Phineas was most sorry for, even though he was still bogged down in guilt as well as rainwater.

* * *

 

When they were back at home, coats dripping rain or perhaps tears onto the hallway floor, Phineas went over and stood at the window, gazing out listlessly as the girls went to play. The deluge outside had lapsed momentarily while they were walking back, but now it had returned at full force. He watched it with reserved interest, if only for an excuse to keep his back to the armchair – he almost felt a burning at the back of his head, the same way he felt when somebody was staring at him. But this time, it was the knowledge that the evidence of his selfishness was right there behind him, for him to go to.

After a little while, though, the burn changed, and he knew that there _was_ somebody watching him now. He turned around, poorly disguising his surprise. Caroline was sitting on the right arm of the chair, facing him with the programme in her lap. His breath stuttered momentarily; it was open to the inscription on the back leaf. He leaned back against the windowpane, trying his best to appear nonchalant – but sometimes, your own family know how you feel before you yourself do.

“Hey, Caroline. Did – did you… want anything?” He trailed off momentarily, becoming more uncertain as she folded her arms across her chest. At first the gesture appeared accusing, but then it began to look more protective, as though she were defending herself against a chill. He supposed that once the cold numbness of death had visited a house it never really aired out for a long time, like when you know that somebody’s been touching your belongings and they don’t really feel like _yours_ again afterwards.

She looked down, tracing the lettering with one finger, before meeting his gaze again. She took a deep breath, as though she was about to run a race.

“I…. I think you love him, daddy.”

He stopped leaning, straightening up and going rigid. Phineas wasn’t altogether sure whether he was breathing or not. He was pretty sure that he knew the answer to that, given the alarmed look flashing across his daughter’s face. He wanted to go and reassure her – but at the same time, he felt like it would be better for all of them if he left and didn’t come back. Oh, god, she’d figured it out – _god_ -

“Daddy, hey, it’s okay!” She was right in front of him – had she been that close before? He didn’t think so. She was holding his much larger hand in both of her own, and there was a soft pressure rubbing across his knuckles. Though she was trying to help him, Phineas could hear the anxious lilt to her voice, making it higher than usual, so he tried his best to control his breathing as he knelt down slightly.

“Tha-thank you, Caroline. I’m alright, really, I promise, you just – you just surprised me a little, is all. What – what’re you talking about?” He tried make himself sound incredulous, hoping that disbelief would mislead her into thinking that she was mistaken. But she inclined her head forward and raised her eyebrows.

“You heard me, daddy. You’ve read the note lots of times – you held each other’s hands for way too long. You acted – not exactly like with mommy, but you acted the way she said you did when you two first met. She told us about it once- “her voice was smaller, now, some of her certainty gone – “and – well, it looked just like that.” Her voice was pleading now.

“Dad, I – I’m not _happy_ , exactly, but I don’t think I’d be _upset_ with you, either – if you did like Mr. Carlyle.” They both turned to face the window, Phineas carefully resting his hands on Caroline’s shoulders as they watched the clouds. Their gazes weren’t meeting, but they were looking at the same thing – so it was less like avoidance and more like companionship.

“Caroline, you know that – I loved your mother very much.” The past tense tastes too bitter on his tongue, so he decides to change it. “I still do – that won’t ever change. You do know that, right?” He felt rather than saw her nod, a bobbing pressure against his lower ribs.

“Of _course_ I do, daddy. But-” she pulled him down slightly, until his head and hers were close together, and leaned into his ear. “I don’t think _you_ know that you can love more than one person, at the same time. It doesn’t mean that you love one of them more and the other less, because that wouldn’t be fair on _either_ person – but you _can_ love them both equally. Like – “she fumbled for an example, “like in Mr. Carlyle’s play. The little boy loved the actress very much, and they really cared about each other, but – he loved his real mother as well. That didn’t make him prefer her, because the actress had been good and kind to him – but he loved her just as much. And the actress wasn’t upset with him for leaving with his mother – she understood that he had to move on. She didn’t want him to be unhappy.” Her voice sounded slightly choked when she paused.

“She’d never have wanted him to be this unhappy.”

Neither of them was sure whether they were talking about plays anymore. Phineas squeezed her shoulders comfortingly, resting his chin atop her head as he hushed her slightly, feeling her arms wrapping around him tightly.

“Caroline – thank you. I think I – I needed to hear something a bit like that.” He glanced over at the programme still on the chair. “I’m gonna tell you the truth – I think you understand, but – I don’t really know what I feel. Maybe I just miss your mother – I just want companionship, perhaps. But it didn’t feel quite like that – I didn’t look at him and see Charity. I looked at him and I saw an individual.” He gave a sigh. “I’m confused, darling, and it’s taking me a while to figure things out. But I promise I will never stop loving Charity.” They were more or less sitting on the floor now, and they both turned their heads to watch the darkening sky, hoping that the clouds might part for the stars to soon appear. It felt like they waited for a long time.

Eventually, Phineas spoke. “Caroline, darling?”

She shifted slightly. “Yes, daddy?”

“If you were right – if I _did_ like Mr Carlyle like that – do you think it _would_ be okay?”

“I don’t want you to unhappy either. I – I don’t know if it’s okay _now_. Right now – it just is what it is, if that makes sense. But – “she squeezed his arm.

“I think it _would_ be okay, in time. Time’s all everybody needs, in the end.”

“What about your sister?”

“I – I think that she’d feel the same. But you’d have to ask her – I don’t think she’s figured it out yet, but when she does, she’ll need some time to think about it herself.” She leaned further into him, her huffs of breath becoming sleepier.

Around the corner, Helen was biting her lip as her forehead wrinkled in confusion. The two’s moment together was quiet, lost in the common ground of day and night, and somehow it felt like it was not to be disturbed. Hands clenching slightly at her sides, she turned and padded back to her room, back burning as she resisted the urge to turn around and see the programme lying on the upholstery.


	4. You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light

Phillip had woken up late for a change after a busy, having been tired enough to actually get a reasonable amount of sleep. In all likelihood, he might even have slept _later_ , if not for the ruthless hammering at his door. At first, there was a sudden weight in the pit of his stomach – what if he’d forgotten to pay the rent again? He had enough money for food and the odd frivolity, but he wasn’t going to receive any more royalties for at least another week, despite the fact that the play had sold well.

“Phillip Bailey Carlyle, you open this door!” The weight became a boulder, his stomach a gravel pit. It would seem that although it had taken a few days, he mused in a detached way as he panicked, that his parents had identified the parallels between his upbringing and the play’s protagonist – at least, that was the most likely reason for his mother to be trying to batter the door down. He narrowly stopped himself from shooting up from the bed, reasoning that if it creaked or he made too much noise, she’d know he was here. He chewed on his lip, rubbing his eyes to rid himself of the remnants of sleep.

Maybe it’d be okay – he couldn’t hear his father on the other side of the door. But he could be waiting – he knew Phillip probably wouldn’t open the door if he thought that Mr Carlyle was there. His gaze flickered to the window – a large fire escape was set on the side of the building, reachable via window from every flat. If he went outside and descended the steps then he could slip off into the city for the day unnoticed, hopefully. Trying to breathe quietly by keeping each intake of air shallow and smoothing out the jagged sound they made when he was anxious, Phillip slid onto the carpet and pulled his shoes out from under the bed, hoping his shirt wasn’t too wrinkled. It was a good thing he’d fallen asleep in last night’s clothes, even if it meant his dress trousers weren’t in the best state.

As he inched out of the window, easing the catch up and stopping it from slamming shut when he clambered out, Phillip found himself wondering what Phineas would say if he saw him. He flushed at the idea – it was a good thing he’d seen the man heading to another part of town, else he might look down to find that the man was watching him. He couldn’t speak to somebody who’d seen him climbing out of a window onto a fire escape in rumpled eveningwear, no matter how handsome they were.

Wait – _handsome_? Where on earth had that come from? _Get yourself together, Carlyle._

It was jarring to find the city so busy when he’d only just come out, hansoms and horse-drawn carts trickling by beneath his feet like crickets pulling wind-up matchbox toys. More than once he’d wandered the streets through either a drunken haze or sheer insomnia well into the early hours, the first to greet the sun as it cast pink-glazed morning light onto the fountains and marble steps of the city centre. Shoes in hand so as not to clang too much on the steps, Phillip carefully picked his way down the fire escape. When he was about halfway down he was struck with a sudden thought, immediately peering over the edge of the railing to look out for his father’s wagon.

He heaved a soft sigh of relief when he couldn’t see the vehicle with its hood insignia and two palomino horses, continuing his downward spiral quite literally until he reached the pavement. Hurriedly he pulled his shoes on, tying the laces loosely and taking a shortcut through a nearby alleyway lest his mother had given up knocking and come back out.

Several streets later, his pace finally beginning to slow now that he was out of what was most accurately described as the _danger zone_ , Phillip began to scan the shop windows as he walked. Sometimes his eye would be caught by an interesting window display or sign and he’d linger for a few moments – he never really stopped looking for more writing inspiration, especially not now that he actually _enjoyed_ it. After a little while of this, he continued on his way down the street, unsettled when he thought he caught a glimpse of a palomino horse across the road. There was one place where he could safely spend hours – hopefully they wouldn’t look there. He arrived at his destination, a shop with a small wooden visage on the outside; above the door there was a small carved sign reading off in flaking golden cursive with a teal border.

_Blue Bay Books._

He increased his pace again as he approached it, glancing around with his peripheral vision before finally stepping in through the door. The bell gave a weary jingle – he’d come here since he was little whenever he could slip away unnoticed, and he could still remember when the paint on the front was gleaming from a new coat and the chime was a merry, welcoming jingle. Now the bell was getting old, lighter spots blemishing the brass from where the owner had attempted to clean it with ketchup. (He’d been present for the occasion -  it had been… _interesting_ , to say the least.) He looked around, scouring the shelves and ladders for a familiar figure before finally spotting her at the counter in the corner, curly hair tied up into a messy ponytail as she scribbled something down.

He cleared his throat softly, suddenly shy as he approached with a slight smile. She looked up and immediately beamed, sliding off her stool and rounding the counter to hug him.

“Phil! Jeez, it’s been so _long_!” Phillip’s smile became a grin as he embraced her in kind, face buried in her shoulder for a few moments until she pulled away. Her brow and nose wrinkled as she took in his rumpled state.

“What happened to you, exactly? You kinda look like you got dragged through a gorse bush.” He sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Thanks, Izzy. Really tactful – I can always count on you to break it to a guy gently. In short, I had to climb out of a window to escape my mother, and I am not going to answer any more questions about it because I’m trying my best to forget about the whole incident.” She snorted, half-turning to rearrange some papers. Phillip checked his appearance in one of the windows, trying in vain to smooth his hair out and tuck in his dress shirt.

“I’m just brutal, Carlyle. Can’t get the men to come near me, they’re all butthurt by the end of ten minutes. Mind you, I’m not judging – she can be a terror when you piss her off. Now, did you wanna look around or are you just here for me to keep criticising your life choices?” He flapped a hand at her, mock-smacking her on the head.

“Alright, alright, I’m going to go take a look.”

As always, he took a deep breath before entering the aisles between the shelves. The shop was ridiculously bigger on the inside than on the outside, and although from the front door it looked like the inside was a neat arrangement of displays it was deceptively labyrinthian once you stepped into the fray. Izzy had kept it the way her uncle had wanted – there wasn’t an exact order to the books, instead following a sort of gradient of atmosphere, narrative voice, theme and author background. Nobody who hadn’t visited a lot could find a specific book without spending a good thirty minutes looking at least, and they either gave up and left or were forced to ask for the title. Somehow Izzy always knew where the book was, but that wasn’t so surprising; she’d more or less lived between the shelves since she could walk, and Phillip was much the same.

Before he’d begun sneaking out on his own, whenever he was taken into town by one of the servants or governesses he’d beg to be allowed into the bookstore. Depending on how likely it was for that particular minder to say yes, sometimes he’d sneak away while they were engrossed in the shopping list. (That was how they’d met, initially – she’d been following her uncle as he reshelved, like a duckling with its mother, and they’d bumped into one another as he wandered around, making him drop his book. Wallace Cauldwell, the shop’s original owner, had let him keep it, and he’d hidden it under his jacket when he caught up with the nursemaid.) In this way the shop had been his escape even before things got worse – before he stared for a little too long at that choir-boy at the school recital, before he started writing plays to act out in his room, before he began to spend more time helping the servants with their chores than socialising with other children.

It was here that he’d found his love for reading and eventually for writing – thus, it was here that he’d inadvertently made his own life so much harder. He mulled this realisation over as he ran a gentle hand across the spines.

At the same time, though – he’d be hard pressed to regret it. It was his firm opinion that if he was like this then he must’ve always been destined to be this way. If it wasn’t the bookshop, it might’ve been a library. Whichever was Phillip looked at it, he was always meant to be a writer.

_“So medicine, law, business, engineering... these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love... these are what we stay alive for.”_ He mouthed the words to himself, the quote so familiar he could say it almost from muscle memory. Those words were on the first page of the first book he’d ever been given, between these very shelves. Down this very aisle, he realised. There was something odd about books – an interesting thing in one book led you to another book, and something in that one led you onto the next one, all in all leading him to a realisation – through whatever circumstances fell about, it always came down to books to guide you to where they wanted you to go. In this exact spot he’d been given a poetry collection by Whitman, and it was Whitman that he needed.

He let his eyes slide over every spine, searching not like a falcon for a target but like a magpie after some small treasure, some serendipity waiting for him in the oak cabinets. As he roved the sea of cloth covers and gilt lettering he began to feel as though there was somebody watching him – there was a burning against the back of his neck that cast a sadly familiar tingle, not foreign to him after growing up in a house where his every move was monitored and policed accordingly. However, there was always somebody exploring the maze of titles, and he reasoned that most of them watched one another in the hopes of their longed-for novel being found accidentally by another browser – and so he continued.

Then, as he saw the title he’d been hoping to see on a low-down shelf near the right end, several things happened at once. He pulled the book out of its carefully chosen slot – and promptly spotted his father, dropping it again as he scrambled back in a panic. He hurriedly snatched it up as he backtracked, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t hit a wall. He hit something, but it was considerably softer and… warm?

He lifted his head and, turning slightly, looked up in bewilderment - as he met a gaze of gentle, dancing hazel, the only thing he could think of was the page that the book had fallen open on when he’d dropped it. Or rather, the poem printed on it.

_“Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.”_

Phineas cocked his head slightly to the left. “Excuse me?” His brow was wrinkled slightly, mouth quirked upwards on one side in a crooked, amused grin, and only _partially_ because of the face the man was making, Phillip almost swore. He really had to stop quoting poetry aloud, especially without realising he was doing it.

He opened his mouth, intending to at least try and stutter an answer, when he heard a sharp call across the aisles.

_“Phillip! Wherever you are, come here at once!”_ Phillip wanted to shrink into himself at his father’s tone, and his face must have paled and betrayed his terror, because Phineas suddenly looked as gentle and concerned as he had on the opening night at the theatre after Phillip had flinched. (He had mentally kicked himself for doing something so cowardly, and now Phineas was making things worse because he had to figure out how to avoid his father and instead he was standing there like an idiot and he couldn’t stop looking at Phin’s – _Phineas’,_ god _dammit_ – eyes or his mouth or just his face in general, really.)

“-lip? Phillip!” He jolted back into the present at a squeeze of his shoulder, startling at the whispered exclamation before he registered who it was coming from. He hurriedly blinked a few times, shaking his head slightly to try and clear his mind of anxiety. There were heavy steps coming closer to their aisle, made by tailored leather shoes that clacked uncomfortably on the ground like thunder on a humid autumn day – but before he had time to try and decide what to do, there were strong arms taking his shoulders and almost _twirling_ him around so that they had switched places. Now Phillip’s back was pressed against a bookcase and he and Phineas were chest-to-chest, or would be if not for the difference in height – instead Phillip’s face was almost buried in Phineas’ chest, and before he could stop himself he almost burrowed further in to inhale the older man’s scent.

As it was he could smell sawdust and ink and old books, and it served, if only a little, to calm his racing heart. Phineas wasn’t meeting his gaze, instead pretending to scan the book titles over Phillip’s head as his father…

Continued walking right on past.

Phillip’s eyes widened, amazed that he hadn’t been seen. As he leaned ever-so-slightly into Phineas he heard Izzy at the counter.

“Mister Carlyle? No, sir, I’m afraid he hasn’t been in for… what, three weeks now? If you find him soon tell him I said hello, will you?” He gave another soft sigh of relief. Izzy was a saint, sometimes.

He realised he was still pressed into Barnum’s chest and began to make an effort to extricate himself, although extremely reluctantly. Phineas realised this and flushed slightly, moving backwards to give him some space.

“So sorry, Mr Carlyle, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I – that is, you seemed to be quite eager to avoid that man, so I thought I’d just – I’m sorry if that wasn’t-“Phineas’ rambling was cut off by Phillip, thankfully.

“Thank you, Phi - Mr Barnum. I really would rather avoid him, you were most –“ _warm, soft, kind, relaxing, soothing, safe_  -“ helpful.”

Phineas glanced down at Phillip’s book. “Ah, Whitman. Leaves of Grass is a good choice – new edition?” Phillip nodded shyly. “Well, I hope you enjoy it.” He gestured to a few books perched on the edge of the shelf beside him. “Just picking up some things for the girls. If you’re done, want to come to the counter with me? I – I mean, what I meant is – we could talk some more, if you’d like.”

_I’d like to – I’d like to a LOT_ – _shut UP, Phillip!_

He nodded, and they navigated through the maze of books to the counter once the bell had rung and they were certain that Phillip’s father had gone. Phineas bought his books first, chatting to Izzy as though he were a regular – perhaps he was, judging from the way Izzy kept smiling as her eyes flickered between them. Phillip felt a pinch of jealousy that he might not be the most popular customer she had.

When Phineas had paid, Phillip put the book on the counter, trying to ignore his friend’s meaningful look when she saw the title and author – only to pat down his pockets and remember that his wallet was in his coat. The coat he wasn’t wearing. Because he had hurriedly climbed out a window. He was about to ask if Izzy could save the book for later for him – she’d try to give it to him, he knew she would, but the shop’s business had been slow lately and she couldn’t really afford to although she always wanted to.

Then, a calloused hand, larger than his own, placed the right amount of money on the counter. He blinked at it for a few moments before attempting to politely refuse, but Phineas was having none of it. Before they left the shop, he was passed a hurriedly-scrawled note by Izzy.

_He just bought you a Whitman – Keep him._

He scowled at it, stuffing it into his pocket when Phineas tried to look. They began to walk down the street together, the paper bag containing Phillip's prize in the crook of his elbow where he couldn't help but wish Phineas' own arm was instead. He was hoping he could stick around for a while yet, both to avoid his parents and spend more time with the other man after they'd finally, finally run into one another again. Something about Barnum's careful, deliberate way of not moving too quickly, the way his eyes almost seemed to soften even further when he looked at Phillip, the way he walked close to him as though to lean into him as they traversed the city together, the way he occasionally opened his mouth and furrowed his brow as though he were about to ask what Phillip had been so afraid of upon hearing that shout, but didn't want to remind him - the essence of all those things collectively gave him the feeling that were his parents to show up with a horde of baying protestors, this man would allow no harm to come to him. Be that as it may, it was to Phillip's deep disappointment that Phineas saw the time on a clock, and paled slightly.

“I’m so sorry, the girls have almost finished class, I’ve gotta – yeah, sorry” he babbled, and to Phillip’s confusion he scrawled something on the inside cover of the book before leaving at an almost-jog.

_Dear Phillip – Phil? You don’t seem like a Mr. Carlyle – too stuck up for a nice man such as yourself. Thank you kindly for the programme, and for letting us experience your wonderful writing skills in play form. I hope you continue your work, and I look forward to when our paths next cross – it could be said that I anticipate it._

_Phineas._

And beneath that –

_Page 35_.

He flipped to it, almost frenzied.

_“That you are here—that life exists, and identity;_ _  
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.”_

God, now he _had_ to write something – about Whitman or love or bookshops or climbing out of windows or palomino ponies or perhaps even about beautiful kind men with dancing hazel eyes.


	5. hold on for a minute, ‘cause i believe that we can fix this over time

That morning had been one of many trials for Phineas. It was the girls’ first day back at school after losing their mother, and it had been a rush around to fetch missing shoes, pack lunches and reassure them both. It was like trying to relearn how life worked – in a way, he’d been doing that for the last few months.

But as he knelt down to Helen’s level and brushed away a scattering of anxious tears with the fringe of her scarf, Phineas thought that perhaps he was beginning to remember. It had been strange to run around trying to get everything done – normally they would’ve split the work between the two of them, Charity making lunch and Phineas tickling the girls until they got out of bed and helping to lace up boots, or occasionally vice versa. But today food had been thrown together last minute, hurried cheese sandwiches and the least bruised selections from the fruit bowl coupled with the last slivers of the cake one of the neighbours had left for them.

Now Phineas was half-marching down the road, a hand clutching each of his as the girls struggled to match his stride and hold onto their bags. He hardly noticed their cross huffs as he refused to slow, too focused on getting them there in time. It was going to be difficult to stop any of the children from being insensitive or asking thoughtless questions – if they were late as well, their classmates would stare even more. His brisk stride matched the beating of his heart, and secretly he was quite sure he was actually more nervous about this than his daughters. You hadn’t, in his opinion, known true fear until you had loved something and cared for it and then felt like you might lose it. Like _it_ might lose _you_.

When the small building with its iron rails came into sight, his pace slowed slightly, and he wavered slightly, like a dog unsure of how to help its master. This time it was the girls who reassured him, Helen wrapping small arms tightly around his waist so that it was not just his anxiety constricting his breaths. Caroline stood on her tiptoes and embraced him higher up, just high enough to whisper into his ear, and in a startling burst of familiarity whispered the very same words that Charity had spoken to him when their hands were intertwined, her breaths billowing like sheets hung out on a rooftop, chest ebbing and flowing like an outgoing tide on a melancholy mid-autumn day.

“It’s alright, you know. You’ll be alright. We’ll all be alright. It’s gonna take a little getting used to, but – but I think we’re going to be okay.” He sniffed, gulped slightly, and tilted his head down, face pressed into her shoulder and smelling craft glue and the warm musk of pulped autumn leaves. He wrapped one arm around her and the other around Helen, lifting her slightly up to his hip until the three of them were enfolded in a slightly awkward embrace. Phineas gave a sigh deep from his chest, and with it some of the melancholy seemed to be blown out for a while.

“Your sister’s right. We’ll be fine – you’ve just gotta give today a try for me, alright? You’ve done so well for me so far. Been so brave. A little longer now, alright?” Caroline gave him the tiniest of smiles and buried her face in him again, while Helen pecked a kiss onto his chin.

“Love you, daddy.” Then a bell tolled, and Helen slid down his leg as he jolted in surprise. She turned towards the sound, and then to her sister. “Caroline, the _bell_!” Caroline clung on for a second longer, but holding on any longer just made it harder to let go – sometimes a last look, a last hug, was all it took to diminish your courage and make you want to run back home. Phineas knew this better than most. His life would perhaps have been far less painful, if not for that last look at Charity’s face out of the carriage window when they were young with bodies too small for their hearts and surnames too big for them to fill. (He sometimes wished you could fill legacies with newspaper like you could with shoes, so that they would be a better fit for you.) Perhaps, without that final hand-clasp, it would’ve been easier to let her go for a second time.

He watched as the girls sprinted towards the already-closing gates, and suddenly wished he could have one last embrace even if the aftertaste was bitter. Now he was adrift again, his two anchors cast back into the sea after too long on the safety of dry land. He gave himself a shake, casting a final glance towards the schoolhouse before forcing himself to turn around and head into town. He couldn’t quite bring himself to flee home like the girls probably wanted to. It would be far too quiet, terrifyingly so, and he refused to flee back to the concealing walls of his apartment (he would’ve once said safe, but it couldn’t quite feel safe anymore,) when the girls probably wanted so badly to do so, even right now, but he had let them go back and give today a try.

If they could face the day, then so could he. He wasn’t a man to ask things of people that he wasn’t prepared to do himself.

As he walked down the high street, he found himself scanning every window for both ideas and job advertisements. It was odd, what happened when grief made you sensible and healing made you spontaneous once again. It made you a bizarre mix of practical and daringly creative.

Most people, he thought, probably wouldn’t agree with the sentiment. Perhaps it was another one of those things that Charity had always called “a Phineas Thing.”

He cut through the square, unused to traversing it so quickly when he usually had to stop for a few minutes while the girls each flipped pennies into the fountain and making a wish. To ease the unfamiliarity he slowed and stroked the muzzle of the blacksmith’s horse when he was more than halfway through. It gave a soft whicker of recognition, eliciting a grin before he gave it a parting pat and continued on.

He paused near the newspaper office, wondering if it might be worth buying a copy before he carried on. He hadn’t really gotten out an awful lot lately, what with a few small business attempts and the girls.

 _And spending your only free time mooning after that Carlyle boy,_ he definitely didn’t say.

It turned out to be a worthwhile endeavour when he noticed an old acquaintance standing nearby as he tucked a copy under his arm. The man wasn’t giving him the scowl he had grown accustomed and even immune to by now, which was almost a shame because it mostly made Phineas laugh. Nor did he look like he was pitying him, a fact he was eternally great for. As he was probably wont to do given his profession in journalism, the slightly older man was simply _observing_.

With a small smile, Phineas approached him with an outstretched hand, which the man shook, though he looked slightly bewildered at Phineas’ apparent welcoming of his presence. “Mr Bennett, I don’t believe we’ve seen each other for a while.” Phineas’ handshake felt as certain as his voice sounded, although he was hoping it hadn’t faltered at the end. James quirked an eyebrow, as if he were trying to maintain an indifferent front. He had a theory that the man was simply a little lonely, and seemed to have figured out that scathing reviews were actually the most surefire way to bring Phineas back.

“Mr Barnum. I wish I could say it was a pleasure – it would be the courteous thing to do.” Phineas tried to suppress a snort, before failing miserably.

“Of course, of course – we both know how much you enjoy being courteous to others, Bennett. Especially me, after all.” He thought he saw a half-smirk flash across the other’s face, but it could’ve been a mere trick of the light reflecting off of Bennett’s glasses. They both turned, the movement almost synchronised, and they found themselves heading towards the fountain, where Bennett made sure the edge wasn’t dampened by spray. Phineas sank down without caution, blatantly ignorant of his companion’s huff of frustration before listening to the slightly lilted baritone.

“Good theatre seems to be something of a hit and miss for you, but I can’t help but wonder – have you seen Mr Carlyle’s new play?” Phineas made a show of watching the clock tower, hiding his crescent of a smile.

“What on earth makes you assume that, Mr Bennett?”

The man lifted his chin slightly, as though he wanted to shrug but considered it too great a movement contrasting with his usually sharp, subtle mannerisms. “Oh, I don’t know. But there’s a great deal of attention surrounding it – usually attention to you is like honey to a housefly, if you’ll forgive the coarse comparison.” Phineas finally gave in and turned around, gracing Bennett with a smug expression.

“Oh, in comparison to your other likenings of me to things I can forgive it rather easily, my friend.” The title didn’t sound either as nonchalant or as teasing as he hoped it would sound, but given the soft, off-guard expression he caught gliding over Bennett before it slipped away like a hard-to-catch fish that may not have been such a bad thing after all. “Mind you, you’re right about me. Just this once, mind you.” He quirked both eyebrows and wagged a finger in Bennett’s direction. “I have, in fact, seen Mr Carlyle’s play.”

Vaguely impressed green eyes met his. “Oh? And what did you think of it?”

There seemed to be something caught in Phineas’ throat as he spoke, this time. “It was very… enlightening.” Oh, _God_. That wasn’t the normal thing to say, surely. He was pretty sure it was expected of you to say something was ‘gritty’ or ‘thought-provoking’ or ‘political’ or ‘a refreshing outlook on a current subject’. (It had been thought-provoking, alright, but the thoughts in question probably weren’t ones to share with the general public, even if they were theatre critics. But unexpectedly, Bennett seemed to gain a spark of understanding.

“You know, Mr Barnum, for once since we first met, I know exactly what you mean.” They both glanced across the square at a small commotion – a horse had stopped in the middle of the road, spooking at a stray dog, and now the driver of the hansom it was pulling was hurling abuse and smacking at it. Phineas tensed slightly and considered going over to talk some sense into the man, and Bennett would not only be unsurprised but looked as though, if Phineas did, he would follow. However, there was a line of traffic behind the man and he was forced to cease in front of too many onlookers as the horse finally gave a shudder and trotted on.

Bennett shook his head, a slight movement but a significant one nevertheless. “Shame, really, how we treat other living things these days. If it wasn’t right in the beginning it shouldn’t be now – asking so much of someone and instilling fear into them when they can’t give anymore.” Phineas nodded, and had a feeling they weren’t really talking about horses now either. The clock struck twelve, and Bennett looked up at it, almost startled.

“It would seem the time has flown, though I’m not sure why.” Phineas knew he was just being goaded, now. “I believe there’s an old saying about why time flies, Bennett.” The man scowled as quickly as he’d previously smiled, and he knew that he’d hit his mark. “That may be, but I don’t think it’s particularly accurate – I believe it involves something about having _fun_.” Phineas finally relented and fell back on old ground.

“You sound rather confused Bennett, but it’s alright – it’s nothing to be ashamed of if you don’t know what that word means. Many men of our age seldom do.”

“Except for you, apparently.”

Phineas chuckled. “Unfortunately, I seem to be a rather rare breed.” That brought out a cough that sounded almost like a laugh, or perhaps the other way around. You never really knew with that man.

“It is my core belief that you’re the only one of your kind left in the zoo. Unfortunately, as entertaining as this little exchange has been, I have an appointment with my bosses.” Phineas leaned back slightly as Bennett rose, and tried to cover it up with nonchalance when he almost fell into the fountain. “We both know that there’s far too much order for a man such as myself in a zoo. And don’t make it go too quickly, you hear? I wanna know all of those valuable journalism secrets next time we meet.” As he rubbed his hands together in mock-anticipation and heard a snort a little bit like a strangled cat as he did so, the other man half-turned for a second.

“I hope that things’ll be alright soon, Phineas. I really do.” And with that, he was gone. Phineas shook his head, lips quirking and brow furrowing until he was making the exact face his wife used to make when she thought he was being silly. Well, silli _er_.

After a moment more, he hoisted himself off the edge of the waterside. He briefly scanned the ground before his gaze landed on a nickel, and he picked it up and flicked it into the depths without ceremony. His wish wasn’t explicitly stated even in his head, more a wistful thought than anything, but you just never knew.

 _I hope that he’s right as well_.

When he’d watched the coin sink to the bottom and join clusters of others at the bottom, Phineas cast his gaze once more over the carved marble elephant with water spurting from its trunk and over its back, the carp and bulrushes elaborately engraved around the base, before heading off. He knew where he wanted to go now, and grinned like he’d spotted another old friend when he found the unflamboyant sign nestled into the wall like a pigeon sheltering from rain. Straightening his collar almost self-consciously as though books were the most respected company one could be held in (it was a core belief of his that they were, really. And the bookshop owner was a decent sort, as well.)

He’d wandered the store for almost an hour after nodding and greeting the girl on the counter, worn hands tracing worn spines with the same delicacy you’d use to count a lover’s ribs. He followed the mood of the books lining the shelves (he’d been enough times to tell how things worked in here) starting at Victor Hugo and gradually moving onto the lighter of heart – he didn’t think that he could stomach all of that _let me count the ways I love thee_ stuff just now, but there was a difference between hopefulness and sickly-sweet optimism. There were a couple of authors and titles that stood out to him concerning the former, but now that the thought was in his head, he wanted to read Whitman. And so he followed the twisting path of the shelves, expecting a story to spill from the crevices in the wood and land him in an ocean or a cloud or a sinking mire.

From then had been the man, the booming voice, the fallen book. Phillip didn’t seem to understand why he’d sheltered him from whoever was looking for him and screaming his name in a way that twisted Phin’s stomach a little like when he thought one of the girls had been mistreated by somebody, and the only thing Phineas could bring to mind was the fact that Phillip had had that _look_ on his face again – the exact same one as at the theatre, but this time there was something very real in front of him to be afraid of, and in all honesty Phineas just wanted to get that _look_ off of his _face_.

They’d talked for a moment, perhaps twenty minutes, but this time the moments truly did whizz by, and before Phineas knew it he had to go. He’d have liked nothing better than to stay, to bury his gaze into Phillip’s forever and never come out again, but he couldn’t be late to the school and miss picking the girls up. Not today. So he’d grabbed the book, one line standing out in his memory that he’d traced in his own copy, recited in his head when he saw the program or thought of Phillip’s eyes or wanted to ruffle his hair, and he wrote down a note and a page number.

He’d rushed off, not approaching last looks or last shoulder-clasps or anything like that, because if he saw Phillip looking so terribly lost, adrift somewhat like he’d felt after last goodbyes that morning, if he’d felt the warm quivering flesh and flashing heartbeats underneath both his shirt and his façade, he knew he’d run back and wouldn’t be able to leave again. And so he left, and contented himself with thoughts and fondness and lines of poetry, and walked the girls home from school in a daze as they talked about the school essay competition and the new girl who’d played hopscotch with them at lunch.

When he got back he’d given them the books he’d gotten with the last of his free spending money, made a dinner he _hoped_ wasn’t poisonous, and read them the first chapter of Tom Thumb before tucking them into bed. After that, he resumed his armchair, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea and wishing the warmth he was drinking in was that of the man with the wolfish blue eyes.

The programme was now perched on the cabinet but he refused to take the bait, instead getting his own copy of Whitman and flicking through it, mouthing the lines as tenderly as he’d like to mouth Phillip’s name, if he were so allowed. He wasn’t sure why he’d bought him the book, seeing as he could barely afford it – but the man’s shirt was rumpled and his eyes had dimmed slightly since Phineas had last seen them, and he’d wanted to return them to that peculiar state of brightness gained by those who have just enjoyed the escape of a good story. Or perhaps it was caused by love – but he wasn’t at all sure about that.


	6. someone will come running, and I know they'll take you home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously the chapter title this time is from Dear Evan Hansen's You Will Be Found. Please keep an eye out if you're interested, because soon I'll be posting a link to a playlist for each chapter both on each new chapter and the ones I've already posted.

The book weighed in his palm even more heavily than his heart, the verses inside intertwining around his heart and caressing it even as it wept from its wounds. He’d clutched it in a grip that was unnecessarily tight as he walked, as though the warmth of P.T’s handprint on the cover could wrap around his own empty, lonely hand and seep into his bones as a chill wind blew. The letter inside seemed to burn like a brand, inky tendrils piercing the leather to lace through his fingers in just such a way as he wished the other man’s hand could.

It began to spit with rain as Phillip walked, and soon his hair had fallen into limpid curls at the front of his face as he hurried to take shelter beneath an awning beneath the press office. Several journalists and critics were huddled underneath, and most exchanged handshakes and praised his latest work. He barely suppressed a wince as they did so, for their pleasure now would most certainly ensure his pain later on.

When the weather had eased off slightly he continued on his way, casting a brief glance at the fountain and lamenting his empty pockets for all the wishes he both wanted to make and was too afraid to, because wishes meant longing and longing meant yearning and yearning meant admittance, which was by all means a crudely fashioned confession of love. All at once growing weary of the day, Phillip returned to his apartment with a blindness that only comes to the exhausted of spirit, and so failed to notice the two familiar horses outside.

**

When Phillip entered his apartment, he was squinting through the damp, misty haze clinging to his eyelashes as he turned to close the door. Spotting an unfamiliar burst of colour from the corner of his eye, he turned back to face the room and felt the butterflies in his chest shrivel and fall stiffly to the pit of his stomach. When he’d entered, his parents, who had apparently been sitting at his battered coffee table with all the grace of vultures in a scrapyard, turned to look at him, his father’s eyes boring into him and picking him apart as though he were a small creature trapped underneath the said bird’s talons.

Needless to say, his father was also the first of the pair to rise from his perch and approach Phillip. Each snap of a finely-polished leather shoe on his somewhat bare floorboards carried chilling intent, rattling the wood and making a sound not unlike that of an approaching snake. The only movement Phillip could wreak from himself was a slight flinch as they came face to face at close quarters, falling at least a head shorter than the older man, and when the words came they came in a guttural, hushed tone that was all the more frightening for the external calmness they were delivered with.

“Did you think that we weren’t going to find out what you wrote?”

 _I hoped so_ , he failed to say.

“Did you honestly believe that you could go around mouthing off through a stage with the press to protect you?”

 _That’s the only thing that’s ever protected me from you_ , he dared not reply.

“Do you think,” and now he was being raised off the ground slightly by his shirt collar, panicking as his breath began to become more laboured and he was forced to lean on the balls of his feet, “that we’ve raised you all these years for you to be an ungrateful little bastard who can’t keep his mouth shut after being disciplined for his own shortcomings?” He was shoved back down roughly, the door handle digging into the small of his back as he leaned on it momentarily, winded by the fall.

 _If you call that raising a child, you have a pretty pathetic definition of parenting_ , he didn’t say – until a slap to the jaw sent him reeling to the left, and he realised that he might have said it aloud after all.

“How dare you! I swear, Phillip, when we get you home-“ Phillip gave a keening sound from where he’d somewhat slid down the door, recognising the intent that filled his father’s words. His mother was still watching with cold, beady eyes and a pursed lips, and he wondered for the umpteenth time whether she’d ever been the sort of woman who cooed over her baby and kissed his brow. There was no point in waiting and wondering, however, because the hands were back and reaching for the scruff of his neck and the book was lying near his hand as though stretching out towards him and the rain was hammering down outside in a symphony of terror and dark promise.

Phillip ran, and this time he still didn’t remember his coat, abandoning it to its hook in favour of an ink and paper shield.

**

Hunched over a book of poetry near a flickering streetlamp with rain diluting his tears like oil mixing with seawater, soaking his body as well as his soul, Phillip cursed blindness – that of love and that of exhaustion. His cheek still stung and his arm had been twisted at a strange angle when he’d pulled away from his father’s grasp. He’d fled his parents’ ire in his shirtsleeves and was shivering as he was drenched, eyes burning with what he told himself was tiredness. It was dusk, and the sky was a deep royal blue – he wasn’t sure whether it was the running that had taken up so much time or if he’d really spent so very long just standing here. The encounter with Phineas had felt as though it lasted an age – perhaps that was it.

( _Perhaps_ , he very stubbornly didn’t tell himself, _someone who can make time stretch out more slowly when you’re with them is someone you could spend eternity with_.)

Why had he gone home so early? He ought to have known that they would return there after having no luck finding him in the city, but the door did not appear to have been forced, and so he had assumed their absence. The slap had been searing, the words more so, and despite his defiance of the pair of them, Phillip certainly felt like a hopeless bastard in that moment. With a sinking feeling, he realised that the paper scraps littering the sparse floor had been shredded pages of his notebooks – it would seem that the only safe place left for his work had been liberated, his mind long ago plundered by drink and a few punches too many, laid waste to by a tirade of abuse over the years.

He had to bleed his words onto paper almost the second he thought of them, put them somewhere real and open to stop himself before his mind could steal them away and weave them into thoughts that didn’t belong on any stage – of hazel eyes and tousled curls and pages signed in comforting cursive writing. And now the words were weeping from his wounds again, but he had nowhere to put them, so he fumbled to gather them up into a ball and store them away before he could make something of them. How exhausting it was to know that he couldn’t survive without writing, and yet the writing was the reason he was here. Perhaps all writing had a reason – it could save you or damn you, and that play had seemingly done both. He looked down at the book miserably, a few drops of rain or tears smeared on the cover. Now that it had known his sorrow it felt more like a part of him than ever.

Yes. Perhaps all writing had a meaning, somehow. It just had to find the right person to listen to it.

Leaning over further to protect the pages, spine pressed to the icy rod of the lamp post, Phillip decided to pick a page at random and at least attempt to wreak some comfort from Whitman’s words, however meagre. Shuttering his eyes against the sly little droplets that tried to slip in between his eyelashes, he thumbed the ivory pages almost reverently, before settling on one – page fifty four.

_My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,_

_The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,_

_These come to me days and nights and go from me again,_

_But they are not the Me myself._

 

He was somewhat reassured by the words, but despite the author’s certainty he could only hope that the words were true of himself. He’d never learned a lot about Whitman or his life – he preferred some authors to be people with a thousand faces, in which you could see exactly what or who you wanted to see. Right now, he wondered if this poem had been borne of an unravelling ball of hurt-filled words clustered in the head of a young man who felt like he didn’t belong. It was oddly comforting to imagine that a writer might be something like yourself, because then there was a chance that you could do what they have already done.

Phillip ran a weary hand down the page, pressing down on the words as though he could absorb them and use them to fill the cracks inside him. As he did so, he felt the rain stop above him, and for one ridiculous, desperation-fuelled second he wondered if it had worked. The real reason for his sudden shelter turned out to be a far better alternative (he’d rather be somewhat broken and have a little patch of sunlight than to have the entire world and not have love, anyhow,) as he turned around to find a familiar grin peeking out from behind the handle of an umbrella.

The object seemed to reflect the man perfectly, a garish, multi-coloured affair that captured the dour rays of amber from above his head and cast a rainbow-coloured halo onto him. However, all Phillip could really focus on was the way the colours danced in Phineas’ eyes, how the smile that seemed to only be for him had returned in full force. It felt like a long hug after you’d been crying, like finding an old friend when you thought you’d lost them for good, like a missing pet dashing in through the garden gate when you’d given up hope.

He realised dimly that he should probably have said something by now, but his legs were trembling and he was pretty sure he was gaping slightly and his fingers were clenched so tightly around that page that he’d best close the book before he ripped it. Phineas seemed unfazed, and even stepped closer – it was almost unconsciously that Phillip leaned forward ever so slightly, wanting nothing more than the man’s warmth and smile and to look into those eyes and know, know for certain, that he’d put that light there and that it wasn’t going to go away because he wasn’t good enough or wasn’t strong enough or didn’t say the right things.

The light was still there, but there was concern as well, so Phillip gently closed the book, resuming his grip on the cover, before yanking a few words from the ball in his head and stringing them into a sentence.

“I- it’s good to see you, Phineas.” The other man’s grin widened, returning in full force, and in the face of such a sight after hours of terror and uncertainty and self-loathing, Phillip did something he probably wouldn’t have done had he really had time to consider it. With a slight intake of breath, he leaned forward on a heartbeat of an impulse and wrapped his arms around Phineas. One arm wrapped around the man’s shoulders without difficulty, the other one snaking beneath his outstretched one holding the umbrella to drape over his shoulder and the back of his neck. Phillip had to stay on the tips of his toes merely to hook his chin over the older man’s shoulder, and as it rested there he felt his blood curdle slightly at how the man might react to the sudden, unprecedented action. He tensed slightly, and moved as if to pull away, when Phineas seemed to notice his trepidation – his free arm reached up and briefly rubbed Phillip’s back, before staying there and holding him securely in place as though his presence would be missed otherwise. Awkwardly, he adjusted his bad arm to the angle as he buried himself nose-deep in the man’s shoulder once again.

As he let himself stay in his very own safe nook of the city for just one more moment, Phillip slid his eyes reluctantly open as the sound of overzealous splashing. Phin’s daughters were running down the street towards them, clad in wellington boots with thick coats draped over their shoulders, and he hurriedly scrambled to break the contact lest they think that something strange was going on. He would, in all honesty, have happily stayed there – although he was curious now as to Phin’s motives for holding onto him.

Caroline reached him first, Helen arriving shortly after, and their insistence on his walking with them and partaking in a lively recount of their first day back at school gave him the perfect excuse to evade Phineas’ gaze for a little while longer. They passed down street after street, the girls huddling underneath the umbrella with Phillip, Phineas leading the way as they all trailed behind him like confused yet excited ducklings. Eventually they reached the flats he presumed were the family’s home, and he prepared himself for rejection and a return to the loneliness of the street outside, the rain echoing his thoughts back to him.

He had steeled himself for the door slamming in front of him when Helen whispered something to Caroline, who whispered it to her father, who in turn managed to blush a shade of crimson to match his winter coat and ask if Phillip would care to follow them inside for tea, to which he blushed an impossibly brighter shade of scarlet and gave his nervous assent.

 _I’ll always follow you_ , he didn’t say. This time his silence was borne from a different kind of fear to that of his conversations with his parents.

_There’s a red thread around my heart and you’re holding it like a leash – sometimes I don’t think even you realise it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once again, for reading! Apologies for the lack of an update last week - we've just suffered the loss of a family pet so I felt the need to take a small hiatus, but everything's beginning to sort itself out again now. My gratitude for your constant support of this fic, and please look out for the reading playlists coming soon!


	7. In Which P.T Says Far Too Much And Yet Not Enough By Far

** Chapter Seven **

Dinner at the Barnum’s was like a breath of fresh air when you’d been stuck inside for hours, like the feeling of reaching solid ground after dangling off a precipice. There was a battered phonograph on the counter, spurting cheerful music in odd little bursts like a slightly leaky tap. The wallpaper was made up of wavy lines in burnt sienna against a background of creamy ochre, and it reminded Phillip of a striped tent – it was exactly the sort of thing he’d imagined Phineas would like, somehow.

And how strange it was, to have met in only a handful of incidences and yet to feel as though you knew somebody the way you would after having met them a thousand times. Phillip supposed they had – as least in his head.

**

Phineas watched as though under a spell as the girls led Phillip through the flat, the young man permitting them to each take him by a hand as though he were a particularly amiable dog. He was tugged around in an awkward state of limbo, both trying to keep up with Caroline and hesitating so as not to leave Helen behind. His consideration for both of the girls warmed the already gently simmering fire in Phineas’ chest.

Phineas was grateful that he’d remembered to fetch groceries right after fetching the girls, and as he set to making dinner something remarkable happened – small and unassuming, like an emerald dragonfly perched on the windowsill on a summer’s evening, or the first swallows returning early.

Helen was attempting to climb onto the poor man’s shoulders, and as he faced the window, Caroline quietly pointing to the violets she was growing in the window box, a little smile broke out on Phillip’s face – not a big, beaming one or one of those plain, forced stretches of the lips that an irritable person might wear when confronted by an excited dog or small children. A small, shy affair, only accented by the pleased little twinkle in his eyes as their corners crinkled and the self-conscious quirk of his lips. (Phineas was unbelievably glad that he’d fallen for somebody who smiled with their eyes – if it was true that they were the windows to the soul, an eye smiler would let you see the most vulnerable and loveable parts of themselves every time you made them happy.)

Somehow, this action had a more profound effect on Phineas than the half-grins he was given when they’d met previously – it is one thing to admire someone’s visage when it is turned towards you, forming a scared smile and awaiting your reciprocation or rejection, but there is something sweet and subtle and altogether more charming about the smile somebody wears upon seeing the smallest thing when they think that nobody can see them.

It endeared the young man to him all the more, and as he watched, Phineas thought with unwavering certainty that his new job in life was to make that smile appear a thousand more times if possible. Then Helen gave a shrill laugh, and as Phillip turned around to face him, subsequently breaking the spell spun by the little moment, Phineas resigned himself to scrubbing burnt tomato sauce from the stove as he remembered that his other recently acquired purpose on God’s great green earth was to produce an edible and (hopefully) impressive meal without burning or destroying anything.

Phillip gave a barely audible huff of laughter, and suddenly Phineas was grateful – extremely so – for the task at hand, because he was certain there was an embarrassingly fond expression on his face, which was well enough but for the fact that when somebody knows you better than you know yourself, they can read you and pick out beneath the mask all the things you’ve denied even to yourself. Most people would see him now and assume the two, judging by P.T.’s expression, were inseparable friends – but he had the most awful feeling that Phillip Carlyle would, without missing a heartbeat (although Phineas certainly would) look into his eyes and find love.

Not love itself, as one solid thing – but that he’d piece together fondness and companionship and interest and admiration and protectiveness and terror and guilt and longing, and the end product of all those ingredients would inexorably be love.

He’d finished the pasta and was waiting for it to strain, and it took him until he felt a gentle, almost hesitant tap on his shoulder to realise that he’d been standing there stirring the sauce clockwise for well over ten minutes. He turned far too quickly, a move he came to regret as he was confronted with Phillip, who flinched back at the abrupt gesture as if expecting a blow. There were a thousand other actions implied within that movement, and Phineas chose to quell their flashing in his mind. That would make it so much more real – and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be.

It was only then that Phineas stopped for a second and realised that Phillip’s hair was still plastered to his scalp after the rain, shirtsleeves puckering around his wrists.

“Phillip, I – sorry, I completely forgot, did you want to – borrow some clothes, or anything? And towels, we have towels, you’re soaking wet!”

Phillip merely watched for a moment, seemingly caught in a daze – the thrice-cursed voice in P.T’s head told him it was possibly due to the relief of not being hit. Then the younger man seemed to shake himself awake, giving Phineas a tentative nod.

“That really isn’t necessary, Phineas, but – okay, yes, if you’re quite sure it’s no trouble?” The question was posed in a voice that sounded almost as uncertain as Phineas felt, so he merely gave a smile he hoped was encouraging and gave the directions to his room.

“Just help yourself to anything in the wardrobe, I should have a couple of shirts and things in there. Although, when I say you can help yourself – try and leave the diamond-encrusted pocket watch alone, I save that one for the _best_ parties.” He managed a characteristic wink to accompany this statement, and when it elicited another little huff of a chuckle he was thankful for the reward that his efforts had reaped.

Phineas was close to being relieved when Phillip left the room, for now he could breathe easily – but the breaths felt empty, lonely, too great by far when they weren’t shortened and taken up by thoughts of the way the man was smiling, by his lithe figure beneath the shirt or the gardens of words he tended to so passionately. He tutted and shook his head at himself. Phillip was here because he needed help and Phineas wanted to help him, not so he could speak of smiles and figures and writing and blue, blue eyes that held both wisdom and suffering beyond their years.

He could hear the girls giggling in their room somewhere down the hall, and wearily he hoped that their mirth had nothing to do with an inscribed theatre programme. He was never going to hear the end of the damned thing, and although it had been intended as a gift to the girls he felt a tad possessive – after all, the message felt as though it were something private and precious, for his gaze and no other – something like Phillip himself, if the man was willing to be so.

He sighed, straining the pasta once more before plating up. Making his way down the hall, he knocked on the door to the girls’ room.

“Girls, do you mind setting the table for us? Dinner’s going to be in five!”

With that done and their joint, rather enthusiastic assent given, he headed towards the door to his own room. Briefly, Phineas hesitated at the entrance, contemplating whether or not to knock. However, it had been a good ten minutes – Phil was probably done by now. He settled for a brief tap on the door before easing it open – it ought to have been a sufficient warning, but only just; when he poked his head around the door, the first thing he caught a glimpse of was a jagged, rough-edged scar dropping from just above Phillip’s left shoulder-blade to a spot obscured by the fresh shirt Phillip was shrugging on.

He must have made a small noise of surprise, because the young man shrugged the shirt the rest of the way on almost immediately, and when he whirled around the most prominent thing evident in his eyes was unbridled panic. He raised one leg slightly as though unsure whether to back away or make an effort to shoulder past Phineas, out of the door and possibly out of his life. Phineas found himself hoping rather too fervently that it wasn’t the latter – although the former would most certainly break him.

He met Phillip’s gaze steadily, trying to keep his expression open. He’d had a multitude of hunches about the young man – his flinches and eyes and sadness he tried not to let anybody see. That did not mean, however, that he was happy to be proven correct. Judging from the way Phillip was watching him so cautiously, it was too late to feign ignorance and pretend that he hadn’t seen the scars. But dinner was almost ready, and the poor man looked just the same as Phineas felt – cornered. He cleared his throat.

“For what it’s worth – “he sighed, trying to find the right words to express his sentiments, as well as averting his eyes from Phillip’s, because he already knew that if he looked into them he’d get lost again, and it was no good feeling lost when he was trying to tell Phillip he’d finally been _found_.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Nobody deserves that.” He could feel his brow furrowing, and it seemed fitting that this man was the sole reason for all of his largest smiles and all his worst frowns lately. Phillip shifted, wringing his hands and clenching the write one as though longing for the familiar sensation of a pen’s weight so that he might spin out fresh spools of prose on his suffering. Despite the impatient motion, when he looked up his eyes were slightly lidded due to the wrinkling of his brow in confusion, and they held a wary litany of confusion and disbelief.

“Not even me?”

“Especially not you.” The words were out before P.T could stop them, and his mouth felt even dryer as he dimly registered the panic setting into the back of his mind. Fortunately, at that exact moment the gods seemingly took pity on him and Helen poked her head around the door.

“Caroline told me to tell you that she told me to tell you that dinner’s ready!” He hoped that his sigh of relief wasn’t as audible as it had felt, and then decided that it probably didn’t matter anyway, given that Phillip’s sigh seemed to mirror it. Exchanging a last meaningful look, they exited the room to re-join the girls and abandoned their conversation to a room that was empty aside from whispers of a presence that used to inhabit it and items belonging to one who was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the hiatus, I've been pretty busy with exams and had a few other original works that demanded my writing attention, but I'm hoping to stay on track once more! I really hope you all enjoy!


	8. Wildest Dreams and Strongest Yearning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, greetings! I can't apologise enough for the absence - everything's been okay on my end, I promise, I just ran out of steam a little after the last chapter - but there are literally two chapters and an epilogue left to write, so it should hopefully be at least a little more consistent from here on out. Here you go, guys - I really hope you enjoy it. Warning for slight abuse mentions and The Return Of Phillip's Anxiety And Self Worth Issues.

Phillip shifted again at the table, trying his best not to make the chair scrape back while minimising contact with Phineas. Every time the backs of their hands brushed he had to suppress the urge to jump or flinch – and how _ironic_ , that the very thing he would like to spend his life doing was the one causing him the most despair. He listened to the chatter at the table, unsure whether listening without contribution counted as eavesdropping – but then again, he was unsure if he was welcome to chip in anyway. To avoid the turmoil of having to do either one, Phillip busied himself with his food instead, twirling some pasta around his fork and taking a bite.

How bizarre. Growing up, he’d sampled foods of the highest qualities going through his parents’ house – anything less than stellar would result in the firing of a chef. But this somehow tasted better than caviar or oysters or dish after overcomplicated dish that had been served at the table to cut through the crystalline silence. It was made out of care rather than fear of losing a job – _fear of not being perfect,_ a voice was whispering – it wasn’t more than it needed to be. It was just – _food_. Not the difference between a stable living and expulsion without a reference. Phillip decided then and there that he wanted to eat like that until the end of his days.

And there came the realisation – that he probably _wouldn’t_ , because soon this would all be over and he’d be back in his apartment. Or, now that his parents knew where it was, looking for a new one. His dejection must have shown on his face, because next thing he knew, Caroline was bombarding him with questions - to try and make him feel included, perhaps. He swallowed the last of the pasta, trying to take the lump in his throat with it, and only partially succeeding.

“Phillip, do you like dogs?” With this question there seemed to come much wariness, for Phineas immediately gave a soft groan and scrubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose.

“Caroline, not _again_ -” Phillip tried to keep from snickering despite himself, but couldn’t entirely manage it. “Yeah, of course. I mean – what’s not to like? They’re friendly and eager and protective and don’t judge you for your past or anything you’ve done, and-” _Dammit_. He’d just managed to project his feelings about Phineas onto a dog. Not even a real dog, at that. He tried to stop himself from becoming tense, and Caroline’s tale about a spaniel named Pluto who’d shook paws with her outside the school gate provided ample distraction – but even as he attempted to focus he felt as though Phineas’ eyes were boring into the side of his head as he listened.

He hoped he was nodding and shrugging and giving relatively fitting answers as she fired him question after question, trying desperately to quell the tirade of thoughts in his head. _He knows – he knows everything, all of it, every single thing they’ve done – and therefore everything you’ve done. He’s had enough shit in his life – without you dragging more in._

He felt the nudge of a hand against the edge of his, and though a neglected part of him long hidden away in his chest shivered and unfurled slightly he managed to mask the movement by darting his own hand away, skin weeping at the loss of contact. He turned to look at PT, still angled partly towards the girls out of politeness even though he’d like nothing better than to give the man his full attention.

In the man’s eyes there lay an unspoken question, the words not said aloud because of how utterly _real_ it would make them. Words Phillip feared, because once he was asked if he was alright it made it still harder to ignore the fact that he was not. Helpless to do much else, he attempted a nod – but at the unconvinced look he got in return, changed it to a half-shrug.

“-lip? Phillip?”

He blinked once, twice, before turning fully towards the girls once again.

“I’m so sorry, what were you saying, Caroline?” She looked unimpressed, but in an amused way indicated by the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth and a disastrously exaggerated eyebrow raise. There was no doubt at all in his mind that these two were the children of the man in front of him – but there was also a cautiousness, a grounded sense that was stronger in the two than in Phineas. Possibly he was looking at the remaining few traces of a lover whose connecting threads to the family had been cut, a dwindling number of them fraying more slowly under the duress of grief. Grief took that which had been cherished and seldom visited and went back to it over and over again, a lack of new moments and new memories causing the mind to return to older ones frequently.

And as with a constantly-carried photograph or a well-loved possession, a watch tarnished with inheritance and repairs and passing from hand-to-hand, memories of one lost could sometimes grey with age, be stretched too thin among too many people, and the threads could snap one by one.

“It was _Helen_ who asked you the-” Caroline gave an irritated huff as she was used as a crutch to make Helen taller in her seat.

“What kind of cheesecake do you like best?”

He stared for a moment – of all the potentially exposing and soul-searching questions he could’ve been asked, this was not near the top of his expectations list. He furrowed his brow as he tried to summon an answer for the girl – before coming up short. He’d never _had_ cheesecake, had he? It wasn’t exactly a high-class delicacy, and so it had never ended up on his plate.

Well, that was sad.

He realised he’d been hesitating for far too long and, grasping at straws, tentatively tried “…blueberry?” Not the most convincing of answers, but Helen seemed satisfied enough, and so it could be left to rest. He glanced again towards Phineas, the delight of their eyes meeting lost in his plea for assistance. However, it was unneeded – Caroline, having tired at least briefly of thinking up questions, turned to her father.

“Why don’t _you_ ask a question, dad?”

Phineas looked startled, looking both to her and then helplessly down at his mostly-empty plate as if expecting it to present him with an idea. Then he looked up at Phillip, and the mischievous look on his face did not bode well for the younger man, he was quite sure.

“So…have there been any nice young women in your life recently, Mr Carlyle?” There was that eyebrow quirk. Any possible feelings of fondness towards the resemblance between Barnum and his daughter died then and there. He hated this man and all his presence entailed. He downed the last of his water, a very distilled form of liquid courage that was really only liquid with a hint of Remaining Sanity, and swallowed.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mr Barnum.” The reply was worth it, because combined with Phineas’ eyes on him and teasing rather than pitying, he wanted to crawl into a hole rather than a bottle. Was that what the critics were always calling ‘development of character’?

Both Caroline and Helen’s expressions were worryingly gleeful.

“He means he wants to know if you have a _giiirlfriend_!”

Phillip coughed hastily into his fist. “I- I don’t- “

“Oh, c’mon, Phil – surely there’s someone… _special_ in your life?”

Despite the fact that Phineas was not actually a mind-reader, the satisfaction in the older man’s gaze was certainly enough to make him wonder.

“I- I mean – there’s a few people I’ve _liked_ , but I’ve never courted or anything…” Phineas’ eyes lit up, and his triumph could be the result of relief or merely the satisfaction of getting an answer out of him. Phillip knew which one he’d prefer.

Taking pity on Phillip and his ever-growing blush, Caroline cleared her throat, gaining their attention once again.

“What’s your best birthday memory, Phillip?”

Oh. Oh, darn.

“I – well, there’s, uh- “

His blush felt as though it had paled a few shades, and he chewed his lip as he tried to think of an answer. The best part of two and a half decades had, birthday-wise, been relatively uneventful – generally there was a large dinner with formal well-wishings and, afterwards, silence about as easy to cut through as a glacier. More often than not, a portion of it was simply spent being reminded of all the things he hadn’t managed to do by that age that other people _had_.

He clawed around in the recesses of his mind for something, _anything_ , to tell them, but it was taking too long – they were waiting – they’d know everything, they’d _figure out something was wrong –_

Oh.

There was a foot touching his, slowly rubbing over the top of his own until he felt the stutter in his breath lessen and, eventually, die away until it was almost gone. The voice that spoke next was soft and slightly breathless, its growling timbre hushed but still firm. 

“Girls, I’m sure that Mr Carlyle is very tired, how’s about you both get to bed?” With some groaning and reluctance, the two were shepherded off to bed – Phillip watching as Phineas teased and lifted them up in turn, listening to the squeals of delight and hearing that wonderful voice reading aloud for a little while before bidding the girls goodnight. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He’d never before considered the concept of having a family. Even if he’d found somebody with whom to share his affections, there was a chance it could be a man – and even if it were not, he disliked the idea of forcing a child to tolerate parents such as his, of having them obliged to call them _grandparents_.

But, perhaps, if the stars had been aligned in better ways – he’d have enjoyed being a dad. Or possibly an uncle. Whether he would’ve been any _good_ was another matter, but he was ninety percent sure that parenting was improvisation at least three quarters of the time. It was like being part of a story that never stopped being told – only a lot less lonely than the writing of one could sometimes be.

He heard the soft creak of footsteps as Phineas came back into the kitchen, and Phillip realised that it probably would’ve looked better if he’d gotten up, started doing something – hell, there were still dishes on the table he could’ve washed or something. What an _idiot_ –

“I’m sorry if they asked you something…something you’d prefer not to answer. They mean well, I swear, but as you probably know – well, being _my_ kids, they don’t exactly have filters.” He started slightly as the man spoke, his voice closer than Phillip expected – he had a presence that seemed to fill the room, and therefore it sounded as though the man were bending down to murmur right into his ear. Strangely enough, the concept was not as odd to him as it probably should’ve been. He tilted his head upwards slightly to see where Phin was – and surprisingly, he was in fact closer than Phillip would’ve expected.

“Oh, ah – no, no, please, don’t worry about it, not at all-“ it seemed that fumbling for words would be a common occurrence around this man after all- “I’m afraid that I’m merely not very good at talking about myself. I’m – not quite as accustomed to it. Quirk of the writing – you’re always telling everyone about somebody else, y’know?” Steeped in humour as the answer should’ve been, Barnum still looked slightly sorrowful.  

“Even so, you seem – exceptionally reluctant to speak of your personal life. More than inexperience would allow.” Phillip found himself wondering for what must have been the umpteenth time whether or not the man could tell exactly what he was thinking – in a way he’d have only come to expect from people who’d known each other for years, inside and out. It implied a psychological familiarity, an intimacy that couldn’t possibly be replicated. And yet here they were, Phineas turning towards the counter to make drinks as if he already knew how bad Phillip would be at keeping eye contact throughout the conversation when the other man was scratching far below the surface when it came to his… _issues_.  

He gave a soft huff, directing his gaze down at the table despite the already-present lack of eye contact. “Maybe there just isn’t very much I’d like to tell, or that people would like to know.” That was that – Phin’s mystery had been solved. Now he’d stop asking, hopefully having realised that it was better for both of them if nothing more was said about Phillip’s baggage –

“I’d like to know.” The hollow _chink_ of a teaspoon against the edge of porcelain punctuated the end of his sentence, giving the words an echoing certainty that made a little shiver run through Phillip’s bones. He leaned back in the chair slightly, furrowing his brow as he brought an arm up and rested the lower part of his head on one fisted hand. That was unexpected, and it was as though the fist his mouth was resting on was there to stop him from revealing anything. A shape entered his upper field of vision, head slightly bowed as it was, and he looked up and blinked a few times in surprise as a mug of cocoa was set in front of him.

“Thank you.” Phineas gave him a small grin – not just an expression of acknowledgement. It was as though he always felt the urge to always express far more than what he was merely _required_ to. The simplest look or phrase could reveal hidden depths of feeling. Much like Phillip himself, the man was a virtual iceberg.  

“I figured you’re usually the coffee type, but it’s hard to enjoy at leisure when you’re used to only downing to avoid collapsing again, huh?” A spark of mirth entered Phillip again at that, and he dipped his chin down once more in a poor attempt to disguise a soft, amused chuffing sound, his eyes scrunched closed.

“I don’t know how you figure these things out, P.T.”

“Oh, please, you _know_ it’s just Phin, right?”

 _Holy smokes_.

“Yes, yes, of course. A-and – “ _No, no, don’t, it’s only not weird when he does it, don’t do personal, don’t –_

“And Phil is okay, too.” The man’s grin widened, and he felt colour rising slightly to his cheeks once again as he swallowed.

“Ju – just for the record, that is. You don’t have to, obviously, I just thought that I’d-“ _Stop talking,_ please _stop talking._

“Not at all, I think it suits you.”

“You – you do?”

Phineas leaned forward, chin-in-palm, and the gaze he was fixing Phillip with – raised eyebrow, quirked lip, a sly, considering light to his eyes – could’ve charmed stronger people than him. “Absolutely. It makes you less formal – hell, even makes you relax a little.” True enough, Phillip found that he’d slouched more, sliding down in his chair until their legs were almost intertwined under the table. He raised his eyebrows, and almost moved to fix his posture once again ( _sit up straight, don’t slouch, Carlyle children do not look like lazy little brats, you do enough what with being hunched over that damn desk, scribbling away all day-)_ but something about the surge of warmth in P.T’s tone as he spoke stopped him.

Oh, well, if it made the man happy.

Evidently it did, as Phineas leaned further forward on his arm and stretched one leg out under the table, bending it until his lower leg hooked around Phillip’s heel, fabric brushing over the slightest patch of bare skin and making the younger man’s blush increase furiously. Warmth was lacing Phin’s pupils like two circlets of smouldering embers – and the embers were lit into flames as he reached a hand tentatively forward to lace his fingers with Phillip’s. Phillip’s mouth grew dry, and he knew he was doing an abysmal job of resisting the urge to lean closer.

“Are – are the girls asleep yet? Definitely?”

Phineas gave a somewhat dangerous smirk. “Oh, they’ll be alright. They’re fast asleep, can’t hear a thing. You’re a little tongue-tied tonight, aren’t you, Phil?”

Oh, _God_. This man was going to kill him.

Phineas rose from his chair, rounding the table and approaching Phillip with far slower and gentler movements than Phillip would’ve expected. He held out a hand, the palm calloused and warm when Phillip slowly, ( _far too slowly, you_ idiot) reached up and took it, allowed himself to be coaxed out of his chair until they were standing in close proximity, breaths mingling and circling and sharing the same airspace for just a few moments, like two swallows just barely brushing wings over the water.

Phillip got the urge to lean up on the balls of his feet, to get closer, eye to eye – but he was stopped by a hand gently pushing down on his shoulder. The hand not holding his, that was – it would seem Phineas was just as reluctant to let go as he was. When Phineas spoke next, the words came out like the gentle, soothing flow of a brook – reassuring, unthreatening, undeniably and delightfully _safe_ and yet implying the chance of a risk all at once. Phillip wanted to inhale them, let them sink so their weighted warmth could encircle his chest.

“Phil – Phillip.” _To hear his name, spoken like it was a gift to be able to do so rather than a burden to have to…_ “Look – if you – don’t want this. If you don’t want to do this, if you aren’t sure, if you’re scared – please say so. Say so at _any_ time. Because we don’t have to do anything. I – if you wanted just to be friends, that would be enough. You’re a being far too extravagant to be wasted on regretful impulses.” He was pretty sure his heart had just skipped a beat – perhaps it was altering its rhythm to match Barnum’s own – who knew?  He raised an eyebrow, inclining his head forward slightly in jest.

“Bold and elaborate words, Mr Barnum. I’d save them for when you truly _need_ to use them in persuasion.” P.T gave a huff, head bobbing slightly forward as the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkled, his nose scrunched in mirth. ( _And wasn’t it lovely that he truly did smile with his eyes – it was something of a gift to find that things he’d only written of in late lonely nights could turn out to be true, could turn out to be meant for him._ )

“Perhaps you aren’t the only wordsmith in this house, hmm, Carlyle?” Some of the humour, however, ebbed from his expression once again. “But, Phil – _seriously_ , Phil. This – this isn’t like everything else. It especially isn’t like the other decisions you’ve had to make, because – it isn’t just about somebody else, any more. Phil, this is about _you_. Me as well, but – mostly _you_. Because I do want this – I want it a lot. But I don’t value it above your choices. Your feelings. I want you to tell me – really, _honestly_ – what you want. Because that will always be the most important thing.” Phillip felt his eyes brim over slightly. Hopefully, his voice wasn’t as tremulous as the rest of him.

“You – you want to know what _I_ want?” Phineas looked sad that a concept such as that could be so very foreign to him – sad, but thankfully not pitying. No – there were helpers, and there were pitiers. Phineas was definitely a helper.

“What you want, Phil. Nothing more and nothing less.”

After so many years – a choice. _His_ choice. One with no negative, no painful consequences, should he choose in a manner that another person didn’t want. Partly because there _wasn’t_ an option Phineas didn’t want – he wanted Phillip to choose what he himself wanted. There was no answer he could give that could make his partner disappointed. And it was that that ended up being the finalising factor. He cleared his throat, willed the tears away – mostly, anyway. He looked up, locking gazes with Phineas at last.  

“You.”

And with that, he rocked up and forwards, stopping at eye level to drink in the delighted shock in P.T’s gaze, before leaning in for the kiss – leaning in, but not kissing, because it was _Barnum_ that leaned forwards and met him in the middle, a hand in the small of Phillip’s back to stop him from falling backwards and another on his shoulder to hold him steady, to let him absorb yet another layer of tingling warmth. The sensation wasn’t dissimilar to the comforting lull of the smell of gingerbread, the delicious satisfaction of lying down and stretching stiff muscles – it was everything pleasurable and nothing unpleasant all rolled into a single sensory experience, and if he weren’t possibly going into cardiac arrest Phillip might comment on the marvel that was the human biological system and its ability to efficiently replicate superficial but positive influences.

As Phillip slowly and dazedly pulled away, his sense of time was finally returned to him as the clock chimed eleven. He’d better be getting back to his apartment, surely-

He tensed in Barnum’s hold.

“Phil? Is – is there something wrong? Did you – change your mind?” He moved to shake his head, but found that the motion wasn’t an easy one with the tension setting in. P.T bent slightly, and they were eye to eye once again – sinking to Phillip’s level instead of Phillip rising to his. How appropriate.

“Hey. Hey, buddy, look at me. It’s alright, if you wanna stop – that’s fine. But I’m worried about you, what’s wrong?”

Phillip licked dry lips that had, just a moment ago, felt sweet and covered by Phin’s. “I – I’m alright, really – I just – remembered that my parents –” Phineas stiffened, and Phillip, for a brief but terrible moment, couldn’t tell if it was in protectiveness or frustration. But then a hand rubbed over the top of one of his own, and the other man’s soothing voice brought him back.

“They what, Phil?”

 _Don’t. Don’t you_ dare.

“Phillip. What did they do? What – what _will_ they do, darling?”

If only he weren’t being consumed by dread – the endearment would probably have sent him dizzy again.

“I just -  that is – they will _not_ be pleased. And they’ll know, I can tell you that. They’ll know one way or another, and then they’ll – then _he’ll_ -” The remaining words hung stubbornly onto his throat, claws digging in and scratching as he tried to pull them out, making his voice crack.

Phineas gently rubbed a hand up and down his upper arm. “Whoa, okay, Phil – it’s alright, you don’t have to explain just now, I promise. What they’ve done – none of it’s alright. It will never be alright, in my eyes. Not that _you_ aren’t alright-” he added when Phillip shrank slightly, “you’re far _more_ than alright, in fact,” (Phillip had to muffle a light snort, then) “but what they _did_ to you – and there’s probably far more than what I know of – that isn’t okay. I’ve already said it, but I’ll say it again – you didn’t deserve any of it. You _don’t_ , in fact. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. You should be able to do whatever you’re comfortable with, whatever makes you happy.” The slight tremors had died off, and Phineas briefly departed to collect the mugs and make a fresh batch of cocoa.

“ _But_ – and this is a very big _but_ – if you’re not comfortable with this anymore – if you don’t feel right about it – we can stop. Absolutely. If you want to continue, but you feel stopped by them – I promise you, we can try and work it out. Alright?” He turned again, holding the two steaming mugs, and set them on the table before turning back to Phillip – and the smaller man came forward, slowly leaning his forehead onto Phin’s shoulder. It was a simple motion – but one holding so much trust, so much yearning. Phineas loosely wrapped both arms around him, smoothing one up and down Phil’s back.

“I – I want this. With you – yes, I do want this. I want to share something with you. A life. A story. I don’t know _what_. But – I’m scared. I’m tired of being scared – I can’t share a life with you yet, because the space you deserve is being taken up by fear. It’s filling it up and spilling out, because even now it can’t all fit in. Heh, look at me - a playwright who can’t even describe his own fucking _terror_ properly. And – I hope we _can_ work it out. But right now – I’m – tired and everything aches and my own _house_ might not be safe, and I’m not so sure. _So_ _-_ I’m asking you to wait. To just wait and see. That’s –” he gulped, instinctive anticipation of a volatile reaction settling in, draped over his shoulders and weighing him down. “That’s what I want.”

He looked up, and Phin’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

“Oh, _Phil_.” And that was it, right there – the way his name was spoken like it was the start of something, rather than a means to an end.

“That’s better than I could’ve dreamed of. And – I’m proud of you. For sticking with me – and for choosing what you think is right. Very proud, in fact.” He was unsure if it was the affection, fatigue or simply tears making his vision swim as he was embraced. When he was finally released, his cheeks were burning red – so he picked up the cocoa, an exchange of thanks and dismissals unnecessary. It was then that he realised he’d never actually _asked_ to stay the night. But then Barnum did that damn reading thing _again_.

“Guest room’s just down the hall and to the far left. I had the girls put some spare pyjamas in there, in case you wanted them.” At Phil’s incredulous look, he raised an eyebrow.

“We just kissed against the coffee table like lovestruck teenagers, Phil, you can’t tell me you didn’t think I’d let you have the guest bed. Hell, I’d let you have _my_ bed if you wanted it – but there’s time for that, if you ever want to. I can wait – forever, if need be.” He gave a wink. “But if you change your mind tonight – just holler, ‘kay?” He turned back to his own drink as Phillip went, desperately trying to suppress the surge of chuckles rippling through him and finally letting them out in the safety of the guest room, collapsing into the bed and grinning into his pillow.

And so Phillip retreated to the guest bedroom, and although his mind was racing in an attempt to keep up with his heart, it was easiest he’d slept outside of sheer exhaustion in who knew how long. As he faded in and out of consciousness, his last clear thought was of the tempered softness that had been brought out in Phineas. It would seem that grief didn’t cut all the ties a person had with what had first taught them to love, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't always remember - or have the time - to reply to every comment, but they often make me cry a little inside (in the good way!) and it would mean the world to me if you could leave a review - I'm awfully proud of this chapter, so it'd make a ton of difference! Thank you so much for reading, as always.


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